


Skyfall Lodge

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond - All Media Types, Skyfall (2012) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, BDSM, M/M, Not Canon Compliant, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-29
Updated: 2013-07-07
Packaged: 2017-12-16 12:34:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 55,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/862086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Silva's escape from MI6 custody, Alec Trevelyan drags MI6's new, brilliant Quartermaster to the safest place he knows: Skyfall Lodge, home of reclusive ex-soldier, James Bond.</p><p>Grudgingly, Q accepts the technological isolation as necessary for his own safety, and he begins to regard Bond as a possible diversion to pass the time until Silva is eliminated and it's safe for Q to return to London. He never expects Bond to become so much more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> As always, this fic wouldn't exist without the wonderful beta services of stephrc79 and rayvanfox. Thank you, guys! <3

**Saturday, 17 November 2012**

James tugged the reins, slowing his horse from a ground-covering canter to a fast walk. The horse was still young and only half-broken, part of a bloodline crossed with the horses his grandfather had been breeding at Skyfall Lodge forty years ago. The horse was sure-footed but a little too spirited, fighting his steady control the whole way. Now, the horse blew out its breath, ears flat, and sidestepped anxiously at the distant thunder of shotguns.

 _Clay pigeons_ , James thought, looking off in the direction of the distant hills. It was Saturday. The village men would be out gambling and practicing. They were two and a half months into duck and geese season.

Two birds hung off James’ saddle, in fact, though he hadn’t shot them from horseback. The beast was too restless, even with bribes of treats offered after every shot fired. He’d tethered the horse to shoot on foot, thinking he’d give both geese to his housekeeper, Patricia, when he got back — one for her daughter’s family in the village, one for the household.

Two dogs loped into sight, rust-red hair gleaming in the midday sun that peeked through dark clouds. They were long-legged and rough-coated, with sleek bodies meant for pursuit and rugged, wise faces that spoke of their intelligence. They were from his hunting pack, usually meant to track and pursue deer, but he’d trained them to have soft mouths and patience. They did well enough to retrieve game, and they were steady, unlikely to spook even a skittish young mount.

He gave a tug on the reins and a sharp whistle. A nudge with his heels made the horse dance back, tossing its head before it broke into a bone-jarring trot. Another nudge, harder this time, pushed the horse into a canter, and James rose up in the saddle, shotgun shifting across his back. Home, hand over the geese, tend the horse. Maybe drive to the village for a pint.

It was twenty minutes mostly at a walk, cantering only when the young horse needed to run off excess energy, before Skyfall Lodge came into sight. The morning fog still clung to the lake at the lowest part of the property. Beyond the chapel, James saw a dark, stocky pony ridden by a slender figure, with three dogs nearby, driving sheep up towards the far hills. The farm truck was parked by the barn. Kincaid was already supervising the hands in loading empty feed barrels for transport back to the village.

Barking happily, the dogs raced ahead. James held the horse to a walk despite how it fought. Horses learned that stables meant food and lazy rest, and a horse that dragged its hooves for hours would suddenly find the energy to gallop once the stable was in sight.

The stable was the most modern building on the property, though it had been built of the same thick stone as the lodge and its old outbuildings. James had hired an engineering firm from Glasgow to draw up the plans when he’d moved here ten years ago, though he’d used local help for most of the actual construction. It was climate-controlled and built to withstand the brutal winters, with sturdy box-stalls. He had two stallions from the bloodline his grandfather had established, and he’d paid dearly for mares whose ancestors had been sold to villagers in years past.

He rode up to the stableyard and dismounted, keeping a hand on the reins until he took hold of the halter worn under the bridle. As he loosened the bridle, Kincaid walked over. The horse tossed its head, blowing out a breath in agitation.

“Easy,” James murmured, grinning at Kincaid. “How’s the morning?”

“Damned strange,” he said gruffly, surprising James. Nothing ‘strange’ happened here. Everything that happened within the boundaries of Skyfall was under James’ strict, almost obsessive control.

He concentrated on getting the bridle off without causing the horse to shy. “Something wrong with the sheep?”

“Only if your sheep are expecting company. You’ve got a visitor.”

“I don’t see visitors,” James reminded him with a prickle of irritation.

Kincaid looked at him with an uncharacteristic, even terrible sort of sympathy. “This one, you will.”

 

~~~

 

The house was ghastly.

Oh, it was nice enough for an antique from another time, but compared to everything in Q’s world, it could have been plucked right out of the Middle Ages. Dark wood wainscoting and white plaster covered the walls. The high, narrow windows might well have been expanded archery slits; they certainly looked made more for defence than for aesthetics. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high, most of it cast in shadow despite the chandelier that filled the room with a very faint yellow glow. That was electric, unlike the fireplace, which was crackling to fight against the damp chill that filled the space.

Q’s bodyguard seemed grimly at home here, sprawled in an overstuffed leather armchair — not a recliner but an actual armchair, with a high back and squared armrests that had nothing at all to do with ergonomics. He ignored the cup of tea that had been slowly cooling on a side table for the last fifteen minutes.

“I knew you shouldn’t have had those bloody energy drinks to keep you up through the night,” Alec Trevelyan said, looking critically at Q. “Couldn’t you have just slept in the car?”

Q didn’t bother dignifying that with an answer. He didn’t mind driving — it was far preferable to flying, at least — but the thought of being unconscious in a moving vehicle was just... disturbing. For the tenth time in as many minutes, Q got up from his chair and did another circuit around the room, taking in everything which, distressingly, was low-tech. “Is there even internet here?” he asked Alec.

Alec gave him the sort of neutral look that meant he was being professional rather than honest. “There’s no Silva here, Quartermaster,” he countered flatly. “What would you rather have? Internet for the last twenty minutes of your life, or the _rest_ of your life, once I get this bastard?”

Q stared at him, not entirely certain the answer to that question was as easy as Alec assumed it was. “You have guns. I have networks,” he said just as flatly. Though Q was as proficient with weapons as most field agents, his _preferred_ weapons were his computer and access; without them, he felt as naked as Alec felt without his sidearm.

“And if I had to, I’d give up my guns —” Alec cut off and looked away, taking a deep breath. “You’ll be safe here.” It was something he’d said a dozen times or more during the interminable drive through the night. The sun had set on them in London, and when it rose, they were literally in the middle of nowhere, Scotland, surrounded by mountains and moors and _sheep_ , for god’s sake.

“Tell me again why we’re _here_ ,” Q demanded, sitting back down. “What’s wrong with blending in with the masses in Berlin?”

“What do I do for a living?” Alec countered. He picked up his tea, glared into the cup, and set it back down again. Instead, he leaned forward to get a biscuit from the coffee table in the centre of the room. His rumpled jacket gaped open, showing the gun holstered at his side.

Q sighed and got back up again. Alec was right, of course, but the point was valid. Q wasn’t being petulant; he felt naked. There was someone terribly vicious coming after him, and the powers that be had stripped him of every tool he could use to effectively defend himself. “What am I going to do here?” he asked quietly, more to himself than Alec.

“Survive,” Alec said quietly, as a noise, like a door banging open, echoed through the draughty house.

The parlour was in the front corner of the house, off the unwelcoming foyer. One wall of the parlour, built at an odd angle, was an open, squared arch that led down two steps into the sort of great hall that was better suited for nobility. No, not quite nobility; more like some primitive tribal chieftain with a pack of hounds and bearded, axe-wielding barbarians. The room was empty, with a polished wood floor in front of a hearth large enough to roast an entire deer. The two chandeliers were dark, and Q could only barely see another archway on the far side of the room.

After a moment, he heard distorted voices: the housekeeper, he guessed, speaking with a man. Then, more footsteps in the foyer.

Alec got up from his seat just as someone stepped into view. The man barely glanced Q’s way before his gaze fell on Alec. _Something_ flickered in his expression, too complex and swiftly hidden for Q to read it.

“Alec,” he said quietly.

Alec took a hesitant step forward and then paused. After a moment, he crossed to the other man more confidently. “Hello, James,” he said just as quietly.

So this was supposed to be the one man who Alec Trevelyan trusted to keep Q safe. He was a couple of inches shorter than Alec, with short-cropped blond hair and a hint of stubble at his jaw. His eyes were narrowed with suspicion. The poor lighting could do nothing to diminish the brilliant blue colour, though; in direct sunlight, they’d be striking. He wore mud-splattered blue jeans, heavy work boots, and a dark brown cable-knit jumper. In one hand, he carried a shotgun. He had a military bearing that made Q look twice at Alec; they could have been brothers.

Now, he set the shotgun down, leaning it against the archway. Then he pulled Alec into his arms, into a tight embrace, muttering something too soft for Q to hear. Alec’s response was in Russian, soft and swift.

Then James let go to study Alec’s face. Q couldn’t see Alec’s reaction, but there was no twitch of surprise when James leaned back in, giving him a brief, heartfelt kiss.

Apparently _not_ brothers. Q watched carefully, trying to interpret the subtle nuances of their body language and interactions. They were more than just acquaintances, but how much more Q couldn’t quite tell.

It was really too bad that circumstances were what they were. Any other time, any other place, Q would have made a game of figuring out just where on the Kinsey scale James was, and just how much fun he liked to have. But Q was too distracted with the stress of the last week and the impending desert of zero access to do anything but frown.

When they separated, Alec’s hand remained on James’ shoulder. “I need you,” he said, and turned to look at Q.

Having one assassin look his way was disconcerting; two was overwhelming, despite his own military background. He had no doubt that they were both killers, regarding Q like two predators debating an early morning snack. “Explain,” James said, not looking away from Q.

“He’s being hunted.” They glanced at each other with eerie synchronicity. Alec continued, “I need you to keep him safe.”

“While you go after the hunter,” James countered.

“He’s MI6. The new Quartermaster,” Alec explained, violating at least four security regs that Q could think of.

James shot Q a sceptical look. “ _He’s_ the Quartermaster?” he asked, turning back to Alec.

“Brave new world,” Alec muttered, turning to lead James over to Q. “James, meet our Quartermaster. We call him Q. Q, Commander James Bond, SBS, retired.”

Taking a deep breath, James stepped out from under Alec’s touch and extended a hand. “Q.”

Q took his hand warily, getting the distinct impression that James was bracing himself. “Mr Bond.”

He nodded politely to Q, released his hand, and turned back to Alec. “You want —”

“Yes.” Alec’s mouth twitched. “So does M.”

James huffed, eyes going hard. “She’s still alive.”

“If you were Death —”

James barked out an entirely inappropriate laugh. “Right.” He looked Q over again and asked, “How long?”

“It started in Macau, though I doubt he’ll go back there.” Alec looked over at Q, apparently expecting him to have kept up with the gaps in the rapid-fire conversation — not to mention disclosing confidential intelligence regarding an active mission that involved not just the UK but a half-dozen of her closest allies.

Q narrowed his gaze at the pair of them, his irritation resurfacing. “If I were able to assist in the efforts to track Silva down, I’d say days. But given that there isn’t a single secure network within several kilometres of here, and that task has been handed to my second-in-command, I really couldn’t say.”

Instead of taking offence, James seemed amused. “And you want _me_ to keep him.”

“You’ll have to give him back eventually,” Alec said, grinning.

James huffed again and turned to face Alec. “You were careful?”

Alec stared at him.

James shrugged. “Right, then. Did you let him pack anything, or did you pick him up by the scruff and drag him up here?”

Alec shot Q a guilty look. “I wouldn’t call it _dragging_. Would you call it dragging? And no scruff at all.”

“I call it ‘only by M’s good graces do you still have your arms intact’, actually,” Q said with a dark glare. “And I have nothing, and no internet with which to improve my situation. I don’t suppose you have coffee?”

James raised a brow. “You fed him sugar.”

“ _He_ fed himself sugar,” Alec corrected. “And shots of pure caffeine. He probably glows in the dark by now.”

“Wonderful. Macau?”

Alec nodded. “I’ll find my way to Paris and fly from there. Just keep him safe until I get back — and shoot anyone who’s not me who comes for him.”

“Paris.” James looked at him, no longer smiling. “You’re compromised?”

“For the last three months. I’m going to need to disappear to do this right.”

“Do you need anything? Weapons?”

Alec grinned. “Got something I can bring to Paris?”

“Of course,” James said with a laugh, the sound soft and dangerous. He turned to Q and added, “I’ll send in my housekeeper, Patricia. You can give her your size, and she can go to the village to get you clothes.”

Q hummed in response, but turned away from James to continue his pacing. This entire situation was _completely_ unacceptable, and Q wasn’t going to waste time trying to argue or barter with someone who was very obviously just like Alec. He needed a plan, and the faster he could come up with something — while Alec was still around to have his phone, keys, or other useful objects quickly stolen, if needed — the better.

The two of them disappeared, and Q heard them speaking in affectionate tones, punctuated by laughter. He glared into the hallway after them before he went back to studying the room, but no immediate solution presented itself. The room had electricity, which in itself was apparently a major accomplishment. There wasn’t even an old-style telephone line, much less an Ethernet port or wireless extender mounted on the high ceiling.

Patricia turned out to be the woman who’d shown them into the parlour and served tea and biscuits. She was well into her fifties, with dark hair shot with grey pulled back into a bun at her nape. Though she was apparently a servant, instead of the sort of dress Q might have expected, she was wearing loose blue jeans, boots, and a knitted jumper, just as James had been.

“I understand you’ll be staying with us?” she asked, giving him a warm smile.

“Yes. Please, call me Q,” he said with the friendliest smile he could muster, offering her his hand. There would be no point in winning over James, but people like her? It was always beneficial to have the truly useful people on one’s side. “You must be Patricia.”

“I’m sorry. Q, you said?” she asked curiously as she shook his hand. Her fingers were callused and strong.

“A nickname that’s stuck. Mercifully much nicer than my birth name,” he replied.

With an indulgent smile, she said, “Q, then.” She stepped back and looked him over. “Shouldn’t be a problem at all. You look just about the same size as my Rose. I shouldn’t be more than a couple of hours. Would you like to have a little lie-down? I can get your room set up before I go into town.”

Charmed despite himself, Q smiled. “I’d actually love to know where your kitchen is. I could really use a cup of coffee,” he said, hoping to learn a bit of the house to broaden potential escape opportunities. And there was absolutely no way he was going to be able sleep in a place like this — there was no need to trouble her.

She hesitated. “We might have a bit in one of the cupboards, but it’s most likely gone stale,” she said apologetically. “I can pick some up when I go to get your clothes, though.” She paused as the sound of two voices laughing echoed out through the hallway, and her smile softened a bit. “For now, how about a nice cup of tea?”

 _Lovely_ , Q thought with disappointment. Patricia wasn’t just a servant, apparently — she actually had an emotional connection to James. That certainly made things more difficult. “It’s fine,” he said reassuringly. “Perhaps a lie-down is in order after all.”

Two days. He just needed two days to be left alone with a computer and a fast internet connection, and he’d have Silva. He just needed to create a window of opportunity to scout out the house’s resources, and having no one paying attention to him while he ‘napped’ would be useful. Alec had brought him here for a reason. Perhaps this Commander James Bond, SBS, was covert ops and had a hidden secure comms room. A few official safehouses did.

Happy to help him settle in, Patricia escorted him out into the foyer and down two steps. Alec and James were in a room off to the right. A quick glimpse showed glass-fronted cabinets, a truly horrifying number of taxidermied animals, and guns, like the most unsecure armoury Q had ever before seen.

Patricia took the stairs with care, apologising for being slow with a somewhat rambling story about a bad hip and an accident to do with sheep. Q half-listened, paying more attention to his surroundings than to Patricia.

The stairs let out to a U-shaped hallway. “The master suite,” she said, pointing at a door to the left. She turned to the right instead and said, “Here’s the nursery — furniture storage now, I’m afraid. And your bathroom.” She opened the next door down the hall, showing a bathroom that hadn’t been remodelled for at least fifty years, though it had once apparently been luxurious, with a claw-foot bathtub big enough to drown Q twice over. “And this will be your room,” she finished, opening the next door.

Instead of a bedroom, it was a sitting room with an antique wood desk pushed under the window, two armchairs by yet another fireplace, and a small wardrobe. An empty bookshelf was pushed into the corner.

She led him through the sitting room to a bedroom dominated by a high canopied bed, stripped down to a single dust cover. “I’ll be just a moment. There should be some necessities in the bathroom cupboard,” she told him as she pushed open a heavy wood chest under the window. Inside, he saw pillows and bed linens.

“Can I help?” he asked, glancing around the room. As far as places to be held captive, at least this one was the nicer sort of primitive. If Q were so inclined, he could probably hide here in these two rooms without needing to leave for much more than food and bathroom use.

He half-expected her to refuse — after all, he was a guest — but she smiled and said, “That’d be lovely. If you could get the dust cover, please?”

Together, they had the bed made to almost military neatness in short order. Despite the freezing cold, Patricia insisted on opening the windows for fresh air before she knelt down to light the fire that was already laid in the hearth. “I’ll have my husband or some of the lads bring up some more firewood for you,” she said, bracing her hand on the stone hearth to stand. Q quickly went to help her up, and she smiled at him. “Thank you,” she said, patting his hand.

Whatever vague thoughts Q had about snatching her mobile — he hadn’t seen one, but _everyone_ had one — disappeared in the wake of an odd rush of affection. “You’re welcome,” he said, hiding his uncertainty. “Thank you for setting up my room and fetching clothes. I don’t suppose I’m able to add to the list, am I?” he asked hopefully.

“Oh, of course,” she said brightly. She led him back to the study, where she opened the desk’s top drawer. Inside was an old notepad, the blue lines faded, the yellow pages cracking at the edges. She patted her jeans and found a biro in the back pocket, next to a much smaller notepad, the spiral binding flattened. She gave it a quick test scribble and then handed it to him. “Write down whatever you need.”

He hesitated and looked up at her. “Don’t go out of your way,” he insisted first. Then he started writing — just the essentials, things he wouldn’t be able to sleep or be comfortable here without. Several small tools, a spool of wire, a surge protector, a notebook, coffee... It didn’t seem like much, but as long as Q had _something_ to do with his hands, his mind could be tamed. He handed the list over to Patricia, then dug in his pocket for his wallet, which, fortunately, he always carried.

She took the list but refused his offer of money, scolding, “You’re a guest of the household. Put that away. Have a look in the wardrobe. There should be a dressing gown, so you can be comfortable, and there are towels on the shelf in the bathroom. I’ll be back in time for tea. Mr Bond likes dinner at six prompt, but a cold lunch is whenever you’d like. Please do help yourself.”

“Thank you,” Q said warmly as she turned to leave. Privately, he had no intention of eating any time soon, but he appreciated the offer all the same. Whether James actually had internet turned on or not, he might have the wiring for it. That could be useful. Or perhaps he had internet that he didn’t share — tied to a specific computer somewhere in this giant building. Q needed to scout and see if he could find any wires. And if there weren’t any, perhaps there would be another useful connection, such as satellite television. If worse came to worst, Q could even make use of a telephone line.

Determined to find something useful, Q slipped out of the room. This far out in the middle of nowhere, the most likely connection to the outside world was satellite internet. First stop: the attic.


	2. Chapter 2

**Saturday, 17 November 2012**

Apparently, James’ unexpected guest had managed to find his way to the steep, narrow staircase leading up to the attic. For some blasted reason, he’d been unsatisfied with the idea of nosing through three centuries’ worth of chests, boxes, and wardrobes. Instead, he’d apparently felt compelled to climb out the tiny shuttered window that gave access to the roof for chimney sweeps and repairs. Now, he sat on the steeply pitched slate like a mad bird, smoking a cigarette.

James leaned on the windowsill, wondering what the hell he was supposed to do now. The boy was ill-suited for Skyfall Lodge — that much was obvious, from his lightweight designer clothes to his ridiculous haircut. He was skinny and fragile and pale, and James wondered if he was going to need another truckload of firewood just to keep the boy from freezing to death if he was stuck here a full week.

“You’re not planning to jump before tea, are you?” he finally asked.

Q looked over at James, expression schooled to careful blankness. “Not even a satellite dish,” he said with a shake of his head. Then he went back to staring out at the moor. “I’ll be in in a bit.”

Unsurprised, James said, “If it’s safe, I can take you to the village if there’s... some show you’d like to see.” He occasionally stopped at the pub to watch a game, but he didn’t set his schedule by programming. He had no idea what shows a boy like this would watch, much less when they’d be broadcast.

This time, Q’s look was incredulous. “Television,” he said, staring at James. Then he pressed the heels of his hands to eyes, cigarette pointed towards the horizon. “I don’t watch television, no need to concern yourself.”

“This is sanctuary, not a prison,” James said, glancing down the steep slope. The boy had no chance of surviving a fall. “Come inside and tell me what you need. Maybe we can make arrangements.”

“Internet and a laptop,” Q said with a resigned sigh. “Which I’m certain Alec told you not to allow me to have. So I think I’ll just finish my cigarette, thanks.”

“He said that was how MI6 was attacked. It’s a reasonable precaution.” James took a deep breath and then ducked to climb out onto the roof. He was accustomed to the cold, biting wind, but Q, even wrapped up in his parka, was starting to shiver. “It’s going to rain soon. Probably snow as well.”

Q nodded and lifted his cigarette to his mouth. He cast a look over at James, then reached inside his jacket to pull out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, which he offered.

James shook his head and sat down on the slate tiles beside the boy — within reach to catch him if something went horribly wrong. Up close, he looked a bit older, despite the fragility; twenty-five, perhaps, instead of under twenty. “What happened to the old Quartermaster? Major...” He paused, searching his memory for the name. Not that he’d ever met or even seen the man, and his informants weren’t exactly thorough or reliable. Besides, he’d mostly been concerned with keeping track of Alec.

“Boothroyd,” Q said softly, tucking the pack back in his coat. “Geoffrey. He died. Silva killed him and several others in his explosion.”

“I’m sorry.” James looked at Q’s sharp profile. Extraordinary hazel eyes, a face that could’ve been crafted by a master sculptor, dark lips.

Q cast a glance at James, then looked back out at the moor. “Thank you for allowing me to stay here, by the way. I don’t know what Alec had to bribe you with, but it’s appreciated all the same.”

So he didn’t know about their past. Briefly regretting his refusal of the cigarette, James looked out at the sky. The clouds were darkening; he could see the shadowy haze of rain in the distance. “I’ll do my best to keep you safe, but I’ll need your cooperation. If I tell you to do something, you do it — immediately, no questions asked. Understand?”

“Yes.” He looked away, though his posture remained at attention and deferential. “No one will look for me here, though.”

 _Well-trained_ was James’ first thought, and he immediately scolded himself for it. He turned his attention to the bleak, magnificent view of the property and made himself think about danger instead. He considered explaining just how easy it would be to find Q, despite all the precautions he was certain Alec had taken, but there was no sense upsetting the boy more than he already was. Instead, he asked, “Can you shoot?”

“Of course,” Q said, turning towards James. He kept his eyes respectfully lowered despite the challenging tone of his words.

At least he wasn’t going to have to talk the boy through an irrational fear of firearms, as if unloaded guns were snakes ready to bite at the first touch. Then again, he worked for MI6, handing out weapons and equipment to field agents. But familiarity with firearms didn’t mean _comfort_ , and James wanted the boy armed for his own defence. He’d need to ease him into thinking that way. It was clear he had no sense of self-preservation.

“This is the best hunting season. Deer, geese, ducks, rabbit. Whatever you’d like,” James said, glancing at Q to watch his reaction.

“Hunt?” Q repeated. His gaze sharpened into something narrower as he met James’ gaze, expression edged with more than just annoyance. Anger, perhaps. “I’m quite certain that you understand who I am and what I do. I’m also equally certain that just by looking at me and knowing what I do, you’re fully aware that I’m not a hunter. I don’t appreciate evasions. If you prefer me to be armed, I have no objection.” He took a long drag of his cigarette and blew smoke into the sky, and shook his head. “That’s not true, actually. I _am_ a hunter. I just need a bloody fucking laptop and an internet connection to bring the murdering sonofabitch down,” he added venomously.

The boy had a point. James wasn’t one to tolerate insubordination, but the boy was also a guest, so James held back his sharp retort and instead got up off the roof. “That’s Alec’s job now,” he said as he made his cautious way back to the window. “I suggest you let him do it, without interference. As for you, come in before the rain gets here, or you’ll probably end up dead in the flower beds.” He reached through to take hold of the frame and boosted himself inside.

The faint sound of Q’s defeated laugh followed behind him, though it was accompanied by the shuffle of fabric as Q moved to obey. “Pushy bastard, aren’t you?”

“You have no idea,” James muttered, looking around the attic. He supposed he should try and impose some organisation on the clutter, but he really didn’t give a damn. He never came up here.

Belatedly, he turned, thinking he should offer Q assistance, but he’d already slipped inside. James stepped past him and pulled the shutters closed, making sure to latch them securely. The wind here could be brutal. Then he closed and latched the window, wondering idly if he should have bars installed — not to keep Q in, beneficial as that would be given the state of the roof, but to keep his enemies out. But bars worked both ways, and there were other measures he could take.

Speaking of which... He turned to look at Q. The faint, flickering light of the attic’s bare bulbs did nothing for his complexion, and James made a private note to get him out into the fresh air as soon as the weather passed.

“Let’s stop down in the gun room,” James said, heading for the stairs. “Once we get you armed, I have something to show you.”

 

~~~

 

Q followed James, carefully hiding the chaos raging through him. He felt like a declawed cat, stripped of the only useful tool he had at his disposal to fight off an enemy only he was truly capable of understanding.

The problem was that Silva was after _him_. From the first targeted attack, when Silva had hacked MI6 and deliberately left enough evidence of himself to attract the attention of the best hacker there — Q, of course — to the puzzle box of a worm that he’d left on M’s laptop, Silva had drawn Q in. And though he’d never tell anyone, Q had actually enjoyed it. It was like a delicate and intricate dance, with each of them offering the other flashy presents in the form of executables. Q was far, far too used to being the best and the brightest. Firewalls and shoddy attempts to patch vulnerabilities and even high-calibre security professionals couldn’t do much more than temporarily slow him down. Silva was new. And different. And most definitely a worthy dance partner.

But then Alec had captured Silva and brought him back, and Q had let himself entirely be made fool of — by his own encryption, no less. It had taken far, far too long for Q to realise that not only had the entire operation been planned years in advance, Silva had wanted Q, specifically, to be there. He’d chosen Q’s own encryption, ensuring that Q would be the one busy working on it while Silva escaped.

It was like a twisted form of courtship.

And Q had fallen for it. He’d fallen hard, letting Silva pull him in with his distractions and shiny bits of code and the promise of a challenge. And the hell of it was, he hadn’t been losing the game because Silva was smarter. He’d lost because he went from being a coding monkey in the quiet back rooms of Q Branch to being the Quartermaster in a matter of days, with no warning. Silva had won because Q was distracted.

And now, though Alec had said it was for his own protection, Q knew he was being banished to end the game entirely. Alec had upended the game board he and Silva had been playing on, resetting it to engage Silva on Alec’s terms. Q had lost any chance to prove that he was better, to beat Silva at his own game, to get revenge on Silva for the deaths he’d caused.

Impotent rage and frustration caused Q to curl his fists as James led him to the gun room. MI6 was a mess. M was at a safehouse with 005. Tanner was running MI6 at HQ. Alec was hunting Silva alone. And Q was being shown around a trophy room by a man who smelled vaguely like horses.

“Try that,” James said, putting a metal pistol in Q’s hand. It was military green, heavy, and felt like it could double as a hammer. Colt 1911, quite possibly original American military issue.

“You’re not serious.” Q lifted the gun incredulously. “I mean, I can shoot it as effectively as anything, but my draw time will be significantly lengthened due to the weight alone.”

James gave him a sharp, assessing look before he took the 1911 away. Then he gestured at the glass-fronted displays and asked, “Do you have a preference?”

“Yes, but you’re damn unlikely to have it,” he muttered looking around. Then he gave James an apologetic look, telling himself that it wasn’t James’ fault Q was in the position he was in. “Sorry. I mean only that the gun I typically carry, which got left behind due to Alec’s annoyingly quick smash-and-grab, is customised.”

There were far more rifles and shotguns than handguns, which wasn’t a surprise. At first, Q thought that nothing here was even worth his attention; then he spotted an L115A3 sniper rifle racked carefully in a corner, well away from the prominently displayed works of art with their etched barrels and hand-polished stocks.

That made him take a second look, and he began to pick out the gems — the _functional_ ones — amidst the museum-quality pieces. Every one was heavily customised; some had laser dot sights or fibre optic hard sights, or aftermarket grips and match-grade triggers. He walked over to the sniper rifle, beginning to understand why Alec had brought him _here_ , instead of to another MI6 safehouse.

“She’s stunning,” Q breathed out, petting the L115A3’s barrel. James took a step closer as if ready to pull Q’s hand away. “Not that I would want to do her a disservice by carrying her around like a common bit of street metal.”

James relaxed as Q moved his hand away from the scope — the most delicate part of the rifle. “If we need that, we’re in much more serious trouble,” he said a bit wistfully before he turned and went to another cabinet. “Can you handle a .45?”

Q followed him and peered at the selection of weapons. “Actually, the P380 would be better,” he said, tapping at the glass. “It fires from a locked breech, so the recoil won’t aggravate my wrists.” He gave James a shrug. “Carpal tunnel.”

James nodded and took the compact pistol from the cabinet. He racked the slide back, verified it was unloaded, and then presented it to Q. “I can put a laser on it, if you prefer,” he offered as he knelt down to open a drawer at the base of the cabinet. The drawer was packed with boxes of ammunition.

Q felt another quiet surge of irritation, though he was careful to hide it from James. He told himself, just as he had since he was a small child, that it was a very good thing to be underestimated. “No, thank you, I’m sure I can manage.”

James just nodded and took out two boxes of ammunition — one box of 90 grain hollowpoint ammo and a second box of lighter loads, presumably for practice. He took an old baggie of magazines out of the back and offered everything to Q. “Will a belt holster work, or do you need an underarm one?”

“Belt is fine,” Q answered. “Where can I practise? Has this already fired at least two hundred rounds, or should I break it in?”

“Everything here’s been fired,” James said, amused. He stood and shoved the drawer closed with his foot. “We’ll take you out shooting once the storm’s passed, or tomorrow morning.” He beckoned for Q to follow him as he went through a side archway, with two stairs, leading into a small library dominated by a huge antique desk. There were papers and envelopes sorted in a little rack on one corner, next to a dark green blotter, edged in leather. There wasn’t a single USB cable, charger, or mousepad anywhere. The hopeless storm of anger threatened to return; it felt as if Alec had chosen this place specifically to make Q utterly useless.

James went to the side of the fireplace, where he said, “Give me your hand.”

Always suspicious, Q gave James an assessing look. He wasn’t acting _interested_ , diverting as that would have been. He was preoccupied with the wainscoting beside the fireplace, which drew Q’s attention. Curiosity sparked through Q as a pattern of dark lines caught his eye. Was it woodgrain or something else? It was too square, too regular, and understanding hit. Q laid his hand in James’, intrigued.

James turned Q’s hand over and guided his fingertips along the top of the moulding surrounding the stone fireplace. Q felt a little divot, and when James pushed his finger down into it, it gave way, as if he’d compressed a heavy spring.

The moulding swung free, releasing an entire section of wainscoting. Beyond, he smelled stale air and earth. James moved his hand to grip Q’s wrist and guided him to reach into the darkness, until he found a weighted string hanging down. A tug turned on a bare bulb, revealing not just a hidden niche but steps leading down into the earth.

“This leads to the chapel beyond the lake,” James said as he released Q’s wrist. “If I tell you to evac, you come here, go down, close the door behind you, and get out. Don’t wait for anyone else.”

Q pulled his hand back and nodded. “All right,” he said, stepping back. “Is there something there of use to assist in evac? A car, a phone, something?”

“Can you ride a horse?”

Q stared at James in horror, trying to determine if he was joking or not. When he couldn’t find any sign one way or the other, he narrowed his eyes. “You’re fucking kidding, right?”

James stepped back to lean against the desk. “On a horse, I can make you disappear so no one can find you. There’s a farm truck, but a horse would be faster. And if we have to escape in my Aston Martin, I’ll be driving.”

With a controlled exhale, Q tried not to show just how much he wanted to respond to the beautiful edge of _command_ in James’ voice. ‘Yes, sir’ was on the tip of his tongue, and he felt his shoulders square and his knees creak as he took in the sensual curve of James’ body against the desk that just begged to be responded to. He swallowed and nodded before he looked away.

Slowly, James turned away and busied himself latching the hidden door. Q set the gun, ammunition, and magazines on the desk. James was bossy, controlling, and taking his job as Q’s protector far too seriously, and while that rankled on one level, it appealed to him in a deeper way that he wanted to hide. So he distracted himself by loading one of the magazines with the hollowpoints, pleased to find his fingers were steady. He’d switch out for target ammo tomorrow, when they went to whatever range James had. For now, there was no point in being anything but fully prepared.

James watched but didn’t comment on his choice of ammunition. “The household is up at five. Breakfast is between half six and seven. Help yourself to anything in the kitchen, and let Patricia know if there’s anything you need, allergies, or the like. If you want to leave, let me know first. The property’s extensive and backs up onto a forest, so it’s easy to get lost. Otherwise, do as you like.”

Q finished loading the magazine, slipped it back in the gun, and chambered a round. Then he checked the safety and picked up the ammo and baggie. “You’ll barely know I’m here,” he promised, looking around the study. God, he was going to be _bored_ if he didn’t figure out something to do or some way to be useful.

James nodded and stood up from the desk. “Belt holsters are in the cupboard under the stairs, in a box. Find whatever suits you. Keep that in reach at all times, even in the bathroom,” he added seriously.

“Fine,” Q agreed shortly. “Do you have a belt? Will Patricia think to pick one up? My work clothes are meant for bending, lifting, crawling, that sort of thing,” he added, gesturing. James wouldn’t be able to see under his cardigan, but he never wore a belt to work.

“I’ll find you one. Then I need to get out to the stable.” He led Q out of the study, pointed out the hallway cupboard, and then went upstairs.

The cupboard filled the triangular hollow under the stairs, with shelves built against the tallest side. Another string-pull light hung overhead. Old cardboard boxes were neatly labelled and stacked. Q spotted one labelled ‘Holsters, Webbing, Pouches’. He set down the pistol, ammunition, and baggie of magazines so he could take down the box.

Inside, he found neatly-rolled, zip-tied bundles of web belts and military harnesses, with and without mesh vests. There were a dozen holsters, all meant to be clipped onto a belt or harness. They were all tan nylon, rather than leather — all military-issue, and not just from the UK.

He’d just found a holster that worked when James returned, carrying a new-looking leather belt with a square brass buckle. “This should fit,” he guessed, offering it to Q. “If not, we’ll just put more holes in it.”

Q took the belt. “Thank you.”

“If you need anything else, just let me or Patricia know.” James gave Q a brief smile before he left, walking deeper into the house, through a swinging side door.

Q spent the next several minutes trying to calm the chaos of his thoughts. He concentrated on the simple, familiar act of getting the holster, securing the gun in it, and sliding it on the belt. He pulled the belt on and wasn’t surprised to find that it was too big. He didn’t have a knife to add another notch, however, so he just pulled it as tight as it would go over his jumper and let the gun rest above his hip like an old American movie gunslinger. He made his way back to his room to drop off the ammo, telling himself that there was no point in trying to analyse anything that had happened with Silva while he was feeling like this — distracted and angry. He needed a diversion.

Part of him thought seduction might well be an excellent idea. Q had _at least_ a week here in what could very well be his personal hell if not for the potential of James as a distraction. He had a delicious natural dominance that Q craved. He wanted to start pushing James’ buttons, to see if there was any potential there. Perhaps he could end up on his knees or tied to a bedpost before the day was out.

Then Q shook his head, wondering what had come over hm. _Not wise_ , he told himself. James wasn’t MI6. He was a damn farmer with a fully-stocked armoury. And, most importantly, he seemed to somehow belong to Alec. There were all sorts of red flags there, and Q, currently in hiding for his life, knew he should _avoid_ more trouble, rather than encouraging it, no matter how potentially fun.

Not that he’d ever been known for self-preservation.

Q closed his eyes and shook his head. _Distraction_. He still needed a distraction, whether that was James or something else. He supposed it was probably as good a time as any to properly explore the rest of the house.


	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday, 17 November 2012**

For once, Q seemed to find himself in a building that was exactly what it appeared to be — a throwback to an earlier era when households were self-sufficient. The lodge was huge and impressive and utterly free of most technological improvements from the forties onward. There were no hidden surveillance cameras, no alarms, nothing more impressive than heavy locks on doors.

The utter lack of technology was, to him, horrifying. This was absolutely not his world — not anymore, not since he’d left his childhood ‘home’ far behind.

Q headed for the kitchen, hoping that there would be _something_ caffeinated. The kitchen was huge, as it turned out, large enough to butcher a whole cow. Double fridge, chest freezer, stand-up freezer, and enough pantries to hold an apocalypse's worth of food lined the walls, and the counters displayed an impressive array of baking and cooking tools. Q thought it was too bad he wasn’t much interested in cooking; this was probably a chef’s dream. Except, of course, for its utter lack of coffee.

There was no dining table, but the central island had bar stools along one side, making him wonder how many people there were in the household and where they usually ate. The manor was huge — big enough to support a large family and servants. Q hadn’t noticed a wedding ring on James’ finger, but a lot of men didn’t wear wedding rings. And there was that kiss with Alec... Perhaps James had a partner somewhere?

The back door led to a fuel shed which had been converted into a mud room. It was full of raincoats, umbrellas, wellies, and a variety of hats, gloves, and other accessories. For a moment, Q debated snatching up a raincoat and wellies to escape the house for a walk outside, but he dismissed the idea. He hated putting on dirty clothes after a shower.

Q walked back through the kitchen, past a tiny loo in a little hallway, and through another door into the dining room. It was uncomfortably like the dining room Q had grown up using, and he made a mental note to avoid it if at all possible; he could practically smell the soggy oatmeal just by looking around at the two heavy tables and chairs. The most notable difference was the addition of a huge china cabinet in the far right corner, filled with lovely white china. When Q peered through the glass at it, he noticed a complete lack of stains, chips, or other signs of use. Just for display, apparently.

Next was the great hall, which was empty of any furniture of any sort. Q walked through it as quietly as possible, trying not to cause an echo. It was spotless, and Q wondered if it was ever actually used for what it seemed ready for — ballroom dancing, communal feasts, that sort of thing. A glance upward revealed a balcony that wrapped around three of the four walls, apparently accessible only by a spiral staircase in the corner. Q made his way through the room and up the staircase. He found a sitting room overlooking the hall, with comfortable furniture arranged to face the large fireplace.

Though the room was just as spotless as the hall below it, it looked utterly abandoned. There were no comfortable wear patterns in the furniture, no uneven distribution of books on the bookshelf due to browsing, no ashtrays or coasters or personal touches that indicated that the space was ever actually used. Q thought it would be a fantastic place to pass the time, avoiding James and anyone else who lived here. When he sat on the couch with a huff, wondering how long it would take him to learn how to light a fire, he saw the painting above the fireplace more clearly. He’d noticed it but had assumed it was something dull, like an ancestor. Closer inspection, however, revealed it to be a wedding portrait.

In the middle was a beautiful, dark-haired woman in a wedding gown, smiling with all the happiness of someone who had finally found her place in life. She had a spark in her eye and a quirk in her smile that turned from merely pretty to captivating. To her left was a younger version of James, looking much less haunted, even cheerful. And standing to her right, with one hand on her shoulder, was none other than Alec Trevelyan.

Q sat back and stared at the portrait. Marriage portraits were common enough, he thought, but they were usually only of the bride and groom. Q knew that photographs of the bride, groom, and best man were common as part of an overall photo shoot, but the prominence given the portrait seemed unusual. At least it gave Q insight into how very close James and Alec were.

After a moment, Q got back up off the couch. There wasn’t anything left to explore, so he headed for the door at the far side of the room, thinking it would let out to the upstairs hallway.

Instead, it opened into a massive bedroom that stretched to the far side of the building. The furniture was all antique wood on a grand scale: a canopied bed with a bench at the foot, two large wardrobes, a chest of drawers, and a leather recliner by the corner windows, next to three bookshelves absolutely stuffed with hardcovers and paperbacks.

Oddly, the room held no personal decorations — no holiday photographs, nothing to indicate James was married. Other than the portrait in the study, there was no sign of a wife at all, in fact, and for all that the household seemed very informal, surely he would have been introduced or told that they’d meet at dinner.

Unless...

Q looked back into the sitting room overlooking the great hall, with no sign that anyone ever used the room. Perhaps it _had been_ Mrs Bond’s room, when she’d been alive.

Ignoring the other two doors that led out of the room, he turned to retrace his steps, only to pause at the odd sight of two ski poles hanging from an iron wall-hook in the corner of the room, along with a riding crop. The ski poles were a bright, cheerful yellow and black; the crop was a warm brown, rather than the sort of black used in competitions.

 _Kinky_ , Q thought despite himself. Or maybe he was just projecting his own frustration onto what could be a perfectly innocent display. This was a farm, with horses. It made sense for James to have a riding crop.

In his bedroom?

Q tore his eyes away from the warm brown leather and went back through the door and out onto the balcony. After a pause to wonder what the hell he was supposed to do now, he headed to the kitchen. Tea, he decided. Or maybe he’d get lucky and Patricia would be back.

 

~~~

 

Spending time with the horses soothed James, after the morning’s jarring visit from Alec and the sudden addition to his household. He wouldn’t let the boy’s presence interfere with his daily routine, he decided as he moved from stall to stall, changing out water buckets and checking hooves. The rain blew with an icy chill that meant most of the horses were back inside. Only the ponies were out and about, their thick coats giving them almost perfect insulation.

By the time he closed the last stall door, he felt much more comfortable with the world. Alec was damned good — most likely the best field agent MI6 had. He’d find this Silva, and he wouldn’t make the mistake of capturing him alive, this time. And then he could come pick up the boy, and life at Skyfall would return to normal.

James turned up his coat collar and ducked his head against the rain, walking from the stable to the livestock barn. Most of it was given over to feed storage; like his grandfather, James believed that exposure would make the stock strong and better prepared to resist unusually bad weather.

Skyfall Lodge had only five regular employees: Kincaid served as the property’s manager, though more properly he was the gamekeeper, in charge of managing the hunting lands. His wife, Patricia, took care of the house and the cooking, though she usually brought in one of her two daughters a couple of times a week to help out. Two strong hands from the village helped Kincaid, doing all the heavy lifting in exchange for cash, two meals a day, and a ride to and from the village in Kincaid’s truck. The latest employee was Kincaid’s grandson, who’d just turned ten, and could be trusted to take a pony out to supervise the sheep.

Kincaid was there in the barn’s little office, where he was going over the feed inventory while the two hands raked and washed the floor. He looked up curiously when James entered.

“Trouble may be on the way,” James warned him quietly, closing the door. There was no need to stir up gossip, even though he knew it was probably too late. Patricia would be discreet, but it would quickly become known that she was buying clothes for someone who wasn’t James.

Kincaid’s expression didn’t change, but he nodded. “I saw Alec and figured something was going on. I’ll start carrying more than just my knife. Should Patricia take some time off?”

James considered, balancing the need for her to ensure Skyfall ran smoothly against the potential danger. “The threat’s real, but Alec was careful. He’s certain he wasn’t followed,” he said honestly. “Talk to her tonight, but let her decide. If you still want to send her away, it’s on your head, not mine.”

Kincaid nodded, frowning down at his mud-spattered boots. “I’ll talk to her.” He met James’ eyes again and added, “If anything changes, you’ll tell me.”

“Of course.” James glanced at the door that opened into the rest of the barn. “Can those two be trusted with guns? We can say there are poachers about.”

“I’ll take them out when the weather clears and find out. I trust their common sense, but I don’t know enough about their aim yet.” Kincaid leaned against the post and gave James an assessing look. “Is Alec coming back?”

“Once he’s done.” James’ lips quirked up. “He brought us a city boy to protect, so make sure the lads don’t shoot him. Skinny little thing, glasses, hair like your youngest daughter.”

“I saw. Twitchy little shit,” Kincaid said, smirking. “Though the way he moves and observes reminds me a little of two skinny young lads from a good long while ago.”

For a moment, James’ mind went blank before he realised Kincaid was talking about him and Alec. He blinked, thinking about Q handling the pistol and going fearlessly out onto the roof. “Son of a bitch,” he murmured, suddenly amused. Leave it to Kincaid to notice the boy was, in fact, military — a fact which James had missed, deceived by the boy’s haircut and youthful appearance. “Good eye.”

Kincaid nodded, then turned to look at the feed. He made some marks on his paper and squinted back up the stacks of grain. “Maybe you were more focused on... other, more interesting features.”

It was rare for anyone to catch James out even once. Twice in a row was unthinkable, but Kincaid managed it. James had to work to figure out what the hell he was implying, because he’d been caught up in seeing Alec again and firmly repressing the ghostly hold of the past. “I hadn’t noticed,” he said honestly, though of course he _would_ notice now, when he went back to the house. He glared at Kincaid and added, “Thanks for that.”

Kincaid laughed quietly, a deep rumble in his chest that never managed to make it past his throat. “You could use a distraction,” he said, still marking things off on his clipboard. “It’s been a while. Wouldn’t want you to start thinking the village girls are worth a go again. You know how I hate turning away angry husbands.”

James couldn’t hide a grin. “That’s hardly my fault. But he’s probably not that type. Contrary to what you think, not _every_ city boy plays both sides of the fence. Besides, he’s what, half my age?”

Kincaid looked at James with something like disappointed surprise. “You’ve been hanging around with us weathered hill folk too long, boy.”

There was no sense arguing with Kincaid when he pulled the wise old man routine. “If you say so. I’m taking _that_ boy out shooting tomorrow morning, rain or not. He seems competent, but I’d rather not have any accidents. I’ll take out Exeter again, and the boy can ride Thor. I’ll let you explain that your granddaughter named her,” he added, smirking.

Kincaid smiled, then finally looked up from his paper. “Just... be careful James. If someone is after him...” He shook his head. “Be careful.”

James thought about the low-grade adrenaline that had been burning through him ever since Alec had arrived with his problem child. He’d been off the battlefield for almost ten years, with very little occasion to use the skills he still practiced. Just because he didn’t _want_ the fight to come here, to Skyfall Lodge, didn’t mean he wasn’t ready.

“If Patricia’s back, I’ll have her ring you all in for lunch. Otherwise, help yourselves to whatever’s in the fridge.” Then, with a quick smile, he added, “Keep your eyes open.”

Kincaid shook his head. “As if my eyes are ever anything but open,” he said, giving James the same exasperated look he’d been giving him since he was a small boy. “Have fun shooting tomorrow. And take my advice. Stop calling him _boy_.”

“Says the old man who still calls _me_ that,” James muttered good-naturedly as he headed out of the office.

Damn Kincaid, anyway. He’d put the image in James’ mind, reminding James just how long it had been since he’d had a man in his bed. There had been a couple over the years, but none had been local, and no one in the village had any reason to suspect he was interested in anything but keeping married women company. Hell, a couple of the village husbands had bought him beers for his troubles when he strategically seduced their wives on critical football nights. He had a good relationship with the village — _his_ village — and he didn’t want to put that at risk.

But really, who would know? Patricia and Kincaid knew about Alec. They’d been the ones to pick up the pieces of James’ life, _after_. They wouldn’t gossip, and no one else would know.

Then he shook his head, focusing on the reality of the situation. He was _not_ going to try and seduce this boy, no matter how damned old he was. Q was a bloody MI6 executive — practically Alec’s commanding officer. And James wasn’t going to let Alec’s career suffer in exchange for a few nights, assuming the boy even was interested.

Kincaid could play matchmaker all he bloody well liked. James knew better than to give in to temptation.

 

~~~

 

Patricia had gone ominously overboard with clothing, filling three large shopping bags with jeans, jumpers, warm button-down shirts, cotton pullovers, and pyjamas. A fourth bag held a pair of work boots, white socks, and two packages of boxer briefs. In mixed colours.

Q had had the strangest impulse to dump everything out on his bed and roll around in it. Though he tended to choose clothes slightly more casual and comfortable than the average suit worn at MI6, he didn’t own even a drawerful of anything this soft and — dare he think it — squishy. He’d thanked Patricia profusely and went upstairs to change. He’d used his new tool set to punch an extra hole in the belt and threaded it through the soft jeans. Then he’d layered himself in the vest he still wore, a pullover, and a pleasant green jumper. The uncomfortable chill he’d felt all morning finally started to fade.

When he came back down to the kitchen, Patricia had made a pot of too-strong coffee, though Q didn’t mind the extra caffeine. She also apparently baked fresh bread every morning, and soon Q had coffee, warm slices of bread, and fresh honey butter.

Now, he sat at the breakfast bar with caffeine buzzing through his system, putting his mind to the somewhat mundane challenge of coaxing a radio back to life. Mercifully, Patricia hadn’t spared coin on a cheap toolset. “You actually get reception out here?” he asked Patricia as he carefully laid out the screws on the counter.

“Oh, yes. The kitchen’s been quiet here. I’ve been listening to podcasts of my shows for months, since that thing broke,” she said, pointing at the radio before she went back to cutting up vegetables.

“Podcasts?” Q asked, perking up. “There’s a computer here?”

“No, it’s at home. The only one Mr Bond has here at the Lodge is in the stable. He uses it for breeding records, to speak to other breeders, that sort of thing.”

Q took a deep breath, relief sweeping through him. A computer. With access. Things suddenly looked a lot less gloomy. Even if he didn’t actively start tracking Silva again, he could at least check in, see what was going on. He promised himself he’d scope out the stable later.

He pulled the plastic panel off the radio and looked at the rat’s nest of cheap, colorful wiring inside. He instantly felt some of the restlessness in his mind ease, and he focused on hunting for the problem.

As Q pulled aside the tangle of wires to examine the switches on the front, the outside door into the mudroom banged open. The interior door rattled with the force of the wind. Patricia put down the knife and brought a mug to the teapot on the breakfast bar, where she started fixing a cup of tea.

James entered a moment later, running a hand through damp hair. “Any problems in town?”

“Not at all. The girls send their love,” she said over the clinking of the spoon she used to stir in milk. “I should have lunch ready for the lads in a half hour.”

“Thank you.” He took the mug with a smile and looked at Q with sharp, intense eyes. Then he deliberately looked away, to the radio, and asked, “Everything all right?”

“Not yet, but it will be,” Q said, looking back down to the radio. Radios were actually quite easy to fix — especially inexpensive ones. He ran through his checklist: not dirty, the capacitors weren’t burned out, and the switches were... Ah. With a grunt of triumph, Q reached into the radio and wiggled a misaligned switch. “A bit rough on the poor baby sometimes, are we Patricia?” he asked.

“When it gets all staticky, only a good thump will fix it,” she said in self-defence.

James laughed. “Which can be said of many things.”

Q’s mind caught the image and ran with it, and he tried to duck his head as close to the radio as possible in an effort to hide his expression. In protest at the intrusion, the radio fell over with a clatter, and Q pointedly refused to look at either Patricia or James as he righted it. “Sorry.”

“You all right?” James asked.

“Hand slipped,” he muttered, still not meeting James’ eyes. “It’s fine.”

James laughed quietly and said, “I’m going to shower. Save me some of the bread.”

Patricia nodded, watching as James walked out. Then she sighed and turned back to Q, asking, “Can it be repaired, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Q replied, carefully tightening everything that had been knocked loose by Patricia’s tough love and his own carelessness. “But only if you promise to be nicer to the ageing lady. I don’t want to repair her only to commit her to a long life of abuse,” he said, looking up through his fringe to grin at Patricia.

She huffed, eyes sparkling, and went back to chopping vegetables. “You need to earn your keep somehow. There’s a fiddly pilot light ignition... thing on the hob that doesn’t always work. You can do that next.”

Q chuckled. “Absolutely. It’s really too bad you’re so low tech around here. I wouldn’t mind being kept in small jobs for a while. Keep me busy, distracted...” He set aside the screwdriver and went for the tiny wire strippers. “I don’t suppose you have an engine that needs repair? That could take me a while. A day, even.”

“Kincaid’s always complaining that the farm truck doesn’t work the way it should,” she said cheerfully. “Mr Bond was talking about buying a new one this winter, when he goes down to Glasgow.”

“I’d be happy to fix it for him, as long as you have the tools and the parts I need. I’ve never met a machine I couldn’t coax back to life, you know.” He stripped the ends of the stereo wires and carefully rewound them around the connectors. He didn’t know if the static Patricia complained about was from a bad speaker or a faulty antenna connection, but both were easily remedied with better contact. “And improve over its original working condition.”

“Talk to him over lunch,” she suggested. “There’s probably room in the barn to work out of the weather. I know Mr Bond would be grateful. It’s not often we can get someone up here to do repairs.” She smiled back over her shoulder, adding, “You’re _certain_ you wouldn’t rather be a guest?”

“And lose my mind to boredom and worry?” he said with a shake of his head. “God, no. Besides, I have the feeling that being useful to you lot is the only way to your hearts. Just trying to ingratiate myself here, so when I finally escape, there won’t be any hard feelings,” he said mischievously.

She huffed at him as she scraped the vegetables into a large bowl. “Nonsense. Any friend of Alec’s is welcome here. Have you been together long?”

Q shook his head, though the idea itself wasn’t abhorrent — Alec was attractive and sweet enough, though Q tended to attribute that to habit more than anything. And, of course, there was the fact that Q had just assumed Alec was straight. “We’re not together. He’s one of my agents.”

“Oh.” She paused and then looked back at him, embarrassed. “I’m so sorry. I just — One of your agents?” she asked, fumbling to recover her composure.

Q looked up from the radio and gave her his best reassuring smile. “It’s fine. He’s a good man, and very attractive, but it wouldn’t be appropriate,” he said soothingly. He didn’t want her to think he was offended at the idea, after all. But then he hesitated. “You know what Alec does, right?”

“He’s still with the military, isn’t he? A civilian contractor?” She shook her head and went to the fridge. “He hardly ever comes up here,” she added with a little sigh.

“He’s very busy,” Q said as he finished wrapping the stereo wires. He picked up the strippers again and started working on the antenna wire next. “He travels a lot.”

She took out a few blocks of cheese and set them on the counter below the breakfast bar. As she went to get a knife, she said, “Those boys, always off saving the world. That’s how it always was. Not that we didn’t worry, with that aunt of his, but then he came back with Alec, and we knew he’d be just fine.” She started slicing neat pieces off each block of cheese.

“Hmm?” Q hummed curiously. He set aside the strippers and started winding the antenna connection more tightly.

“His aunt — she was never quite _right_ ,” she added grimly. “Brought him up here exactly twice. And she frittered away the family’s money, taking him to Europe so _she_ could —” She snapped her mouth shut and shoved the knife down onto the cutting board with more force than necessary. “But he turned out just fine, in the end.”

Q smiled at her, admiring her fierce protectiveness and attachment. “At least in no small part due to your influence, I bet,” he said, letting himself give in to his first real grin in what felt like months. Perhaps longer. He had a sudden mental image of Patricia brandishing the bread knife at whatever unfortunate woman had been stupid enough to anger her by not being kind to James. “It isn’t blood that makes real families, after all,” he added, going back to his work.

She favoured him with a quick, genuine smile. “I’ve said that very thing myself a time or two,” she agreed, moving the cheese onto a platter to make room for more. “So, are you in the military as well? You said Alec’s one of your agents?”

“Yes,” he said, telling himself it wasn’t exactly a lie. He wasn’t proper military anymore, but neither was Alec. “It won’t surprise you to know that my primary job is making technology work to Alec’s advantage. And the others as well, of course. I’m the head of my particular unit, which provides weapons, gear, and in-field intel, though. I don’t actually spend much time in the field doing this,” he said waving his hand at the radio. Then he picked up the backplate and started screwing it into place.

“Well, hopefully this will be a nice holiday for you,” she said cheerily. She picked up the cutting board to scrape a couple of choice pieces of cheese onto the plate with his half-eaten buttered bread. Conspiratorially, she added, “I’d just have a word with that Alec about dropping you here without even an overnight bag.”

“Thank you,” Q said with exasperation. “I mean, honestly. Even just ten more minutes and I could have set myself up properly. I don’t even have an MP3 player. I have no idea how in the hell I’m going to sleep.” He shook his head in irritation and slid off the stool, radio in hand. He walked around the island to the counter next to Patricia and plugged in the radio. A flip of the switch and a fiddle of dials to the station she’d mentioned, and soon music was coming through loud and clear.

He grinned at Patricia. “Triumph.”

“You’re a love,” she said, beaming at him. She pointed at a windowsill with her knife. “It goes over there, above the sink, so I can turn it up when I’m doing the washing. And could you ring the bell to call in the hands, please? It’s a little fiddly. Try not to get shocked.”

Q gave her a knowing look as he moved the radio. “Let’s just bump the pilot light down the list a notch or two, shall we?” he asked, shaking his head. “Can I turn off the power in here without causing any problems?” He turned to examine the little doorbell near the mudroom entrance and pressed it gingerly.

“I’m not entirely certain,” she admitted. “The fuses are in the basement. The door is under the stairs. Grab a torch from the drawer there.” She pointed at the drawers nearest the mudroom door.

Q opened the drawer and dug through years’ worth of junk, taking only a moment to find a torch. He flicked the switch to make sure it worked properly, then repeated the process with a second torch. Better safe than sorry, with something as fiddly as torches tended to be. He stuck one in his back pocket, and turned to head down the stairs.

It was honestly quite a relief to be put to use like this, he decided as he made his way down the creaky wooden steps. Not only did it keep his overactive mind from eating itself in sheer boredom; it distracted him from doing anything stupid in an ill-formed attempt to find Silva. The fact was that Silva was good, and Q was limited by the technology available here. Though Q was one of the best in the world, even he could get caught simply because the internet connection here was too easily traced. And Alec _was_ good — the best in all of MI6. Three days, Q decided, pushing aside a spiderweb. He’d give Alec three days, and if Alec didn’t check in to tell Q he was making progress, then Q would think about stepping in. At the very least, the act of hiding his activities and getting lost in the familiar, black and white world of codes and servers would distract him from the ever-growing temptation of James.

The basement was damp and frigid. Exposed pipes, no younger than fifty years old, hung from the ceiling, making it hazardous to walk upright. A rat’s nest of wiring exploded from the wall to snake around the pipes, up into different parts of the house. Q grimaced at the mess, particularly where the wiring routed over nails, wrapped with electrical tape to prevent the insulation from being damaged.

Worse, he found a primitive fuse box, rather than circuit breakers. The fuses had once been labelled, but the handwriting was more of a chicken scratch than proper lettering, and the writing had faded over time.

Only one seemed to start with anything resembling a K, and Q pulled out the fuse, listening for any immediate yells of protest. When none came, Q smiled to himself and went back to searching the labels. It was probably wise to shut off any power to the mudroom as well, he decided. Once again he found the label by process of elimination more than anything, and he took out the fuse next to the only writing that seemed to start with an M. Satisfied, he turned and made his way back upstairs.

He entered the kitchen, feeling a sense of accomplishment that faded when he realised the radio was still on. It was plugged in near the sink — an outlet that violated code, he guessed. And the lights were on.

Warily now, he went to the mudroom and flipped the wall switch. The overhead light flickered on, filling the damp room with a sad, low-wattage glow. Wind and rain rattled against the back door, and Q quickly flipped the switch off and withdrew into the warm kitchen.

He turned and froze when he saw James, now wearing nothing but a towel around his waist and drips of water, walk through the doorway. “Everything all right here?” he asked, heading for Q.

Patricia glanced back and said, “Lovely, sir. Your guest’s fixed the radio. He’s going to work on the bell next, so we won’t need to use a broom handle to press the button.”

James gave Q a warm smile. “Thanks,” he said, going for the drawer, only to stop when he spotted the torch in Q’s hand. “I’ll need that. Looks like a fuse blew.”

The meaning of James’ words filtered through Q’s entirely inappropriate appreciation of his host’s gorgeous, wet chest, and he frowned. “Shit,” he cursed, shaking his head and absolutely refusing to give in to the urge to catalogue the scars he saw. There was at least one bullet wound. “I’m sorry. I was trying to cut the power to the kitchen and mudroom. Guess the wires have been moved a few times since they were last labelled. I’ll just...” He waved at the basement door. “It’ll be back on in just a tick.”

“And you, sir, off my floor, before I get you the mop,” Patricia added threateningly to James.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said, retreating almost on Q’s heels. “Which specific power circuits are you cutting?”

“Second from the top, and third from the bottom,” Q recited. “I’m guessing one was your bathroom.”

“Ah, they’re... not divided by room,” James said apologetically. “It’s a bit more freeform than that. Most of the overhead lights are on one circuit, the basic outlets are on another, and so on. The house was wired in stages. I can take care of it for you. The basement’s not very hospitable.” He held out his hand to Q.

“You’re wet and naked,” Q pointed out before he could stop himself, and James’ brows shot up before he barked out a laugh. “I’ll go turn them back on and wait to do the repair until I know it’s safe to shut everything off,” Q added quickly. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen worse. Hell, I’ve lived in worse.” He laughed and turned before he could dig himself any deeper.

“If you insist. Try not to electrocute yourself,” James advised with a wry smile. “I’ll show you which ones I remember, once I’ve actually got all the soap off.”

“Excellent,” Q said faintly, wrenching the door back open. He headed down the stairs before he could do something as completely ridiculous as picture James in the shower, ridding himself of soap. Or James, still in the towel, crowding him in the tight corner of the basement where the fuses were.

“Spiders,” he whispered to himself, ducking the webs as he made his way back to the box. “Naked wet skin and webs and spiders. _Not_ sexy.” He replaced the fuses and took a deep breath.

Bi or not, there was no way he was going to think about having a fling with an old friend of Alec Trevelyan’s.


	4. Chapter 4

**Saturday, 17 November 2012**

Q saved himself from socialising by working on the gas ignition switch, rather than sitting at the table in the dining room. James was there — clothed, Q noted wryly — and ate with Kincaid, Patricia, and two twenty-somethings who looked just a bit disreputable. He did leave the table first, though, to head into the study in the front of the house. Kincaid and the two hands went out into the rain, though Patricia called Kincaid back and handed him an insulated lunch bag and thermos with instructions to deliver them to the pasture.

“You didn’t eat,” she scolded Q as she started bringing dishes in from the dining room. “There’s a bit of soup left, if you’d like something hot.”

“Perhaps later,” Q said as he grimaced at the state his hands were in. Fortunately, the oven wasn’t wired directly to the power in the kitchen, and he’d been able to simply unplug the appliance before he started to pull out the oven bottom and the flame spreader. Patricia kept the oven itself in near spotless condition, but there wasn’t anything she could do about decades of grease and grime in the places she couldn’t reach.

The problem, fortunately, turned out to be simply electrical. Q breathed a sigh of relief when he spotted the frayed wiring between the glow ignitor and the open valve. “This will be easy to fix,” he muttered from where his head was stuck inside the oven. “Hang on.”

It took far longer than it should have, given how simple the fix was. But the problem was that Q was in a bloody oven, balancing on all fours, and trying to manipulate the copper with slippery hands. Finally he huffed out a sigh of irritation. “Do you have a pair of needle-nose pliers I can use?”

“I’ve a pair I use for deboning fish. Will that do?” she offered.

“Or I can get a proper pair,” James said. His voice sounded disturbingly close to where Q was practically trapped in the guts of the oven. “You all right in there?”

Q huffed again. “Bloody peachy,” he said, wiping stray hair away from his forehead. He carefully pulled himself backward from the oven and looked up at where James was standing only a few paces away. “Don’t I look it?” he asked, irrationally annoyed.

James stuck a hand in his pocket and took out a handkerchief. He walked over to Q and leaned down, rubbing one cloth-covered fingertip over his forehead. “Sorry, that’s making it worse,” he said, eyes alight with humour. He offered Q the handkerchief. “Needle-nose pliers. Anything else?”

Q took the handkerchief, surprised. He couldn’t even remember the last time someone touched him, uninvited. “Uh, no, that’s it, thanks,” he said, looking at the handkerchief. “And thanks.”

“If he makes a mess, give him a free pass for today,” James told Patricia as he started back across the kitchen. “He’s supposed to be a guest.”

“He insisted upon being useful, sir,” she countered.

“As if I wouldn’t put everything back the way I found it when I was done,” Q objected, carefully tucking the handkerchief in his pocket. There was no point in cleaning up now; might as well wait until he was done to reward himself with a long, hot bath.

After the doorbell, too, of course. It was probably wise to ensure any lingering spiderwebs or spiders were properly washed away.

The thought made his skin crawl. He looked down at himself, wiped his hands on the handkerchief, and carefully took off his jumper. Then, because he didn’t want to stain the pullover, he removed that as well, leaving him to fight the oven in just his vest. “If you have some oven cleaner, I can tackle some of this practically sentient grease while I’m waiting.”

“Absolutely not,” Patricia said. She knelt down a bit stiffly beside him and ducked to look into the depths. “I’ll take care of that. You’ve done enough, dear. Just leave the oven pulled out. I can have Kincaid push it back in place after it’s properly scrubbed.”

Q shook his head. “I need to screw everything back in place. I’d rather do it anyway, just to make sure the leads aren’t corroded. And I’m already a mess. Ten minutes. Please.”

She looked over at him, giving him a fond smile, and patted his filthy hand. “I’ll fetch the baking soda. Do you like apple pie?”

“Yes,” he replied with a grin. “With ice cream, if you have it,” he hinted.

Instead of answering, she just smiled slyly and got stiffly to her feet, muttering, “Pie tins. And the baking soda.” She crossed the kitchen, returning with a box almost immediately, along with several rags and a slightly battered spatula. “You can scrape off the worst of it with this, if you like. You’re terribly useful, you know. Not many men would even notice an oven’s dirty, much less know how to clean it out.”

Q took everything and set it next to him. “I don’t do _bored_ ,” he said, taking one of the rags to the inside of the oven.

This time, he heard James approach, and wasn’t caught by surprise when James knelt down next to him. “Pliers. So you were in the army?”

Q didn’t bother to pull back out of the oven this time; he merely stretched his hand out for the pliers. It seemed like an odd connection to make — cleaning the oven, repairing the oven, army. “Was it my stunning use of baking soda that gave it away?” he asked curiously.

James laughed and set the pliers in his hand. “Either you were in the army or your vest has a very odd design faded into the back.”

Ah, the tattoo. Q realised with some embarrassment that he was probably sweating enough for the Army crest, which ran from shoulder to shoulder down to just below his shoulder blades, to be clearly visible under the thin fabric. “Eight years,” he said. He cleaned off his hands with the rag and went back to work on the electrical.

“Eight years,” James repeated. “How long have you been with your current organisation?” he asked discreetly.

“Only five,” Q admitted, letting out a grunt as he twisted. His still-greasy hand slipped on the pliers, and he cursed as his hand got caught on the sharp edge of the oven valve. He wrapped the rag around the cut and kept working. “They heard rumours about an enlisted soldier being able to fix anything, from radios to holes in firewalls, and recruited me to R&D.”

“Son of a bitch. Kincaid was right,” James muttered, bending down further. “You’re bleeding.”

Q twisted to give him a surprised look. “Nothing worth swearing over,” he said. “I’m almost done.”

“Not that,” he said unhelpfully. He got up and said, “I’ll be in the stable.”

“You will?” Patricia asked, sounding surprised, but the mudroom door opened and closed without an answer. She let out a thoughtful little hum. “Everything going all right?” she asked, walking over to Q.

“Fine,” he said, baffled. “Just a few more minutes and she’ll be as good as new.”

“Thank you. I’ll fetch a plaster — or do you need me to sew you up?” she asked casually, as if that sort of thing were commonplace.

“You can do that?” he asked with surprised appreciation. “Where have you been all my life?” he teased, grinning at her.

“If you were twenty years older,” she said teasingly. And then, more thoughtfully, she said, “Perhaps just ten. But don’t you dare tell my husband I said that.”

Q laughed and ducked back into the oven to finish his work. Just for that, he’d make the damn thing spotless.

Twenty minutes later, the oven was back in perfect working order and cleaner than it had been probably since it was brand new. Q stood and stretched, placing the pliers and remaining soda on the counter. Then he wiped up what little grease was left on the floor in front of the oven. “All set,” he said, grinning. He plugged the appliance back into the wall and lit the pilot to demonstrate. “Unhesitating flame. Such a beautiful thing.”

“You’re a treasure,” she said, beckoning him over to the sink, where she rinsed flour off her hands. “You wash up, and then let me look at that cut.”

“Is there a sink in the mudroom I should inflict my grease on instead?” he asked.

“This is just fine. If I can ask one more favour of you? Then you can take a cup of tea and have a nice, long soak,” she said, handing him a bottle of washing up liquid.

“Of course,” he said, pouring the soap generously over his arms and hands. He turned on the water and started scrubbing. “What’s next on the list?”

“Just run some hot tea out to Mr Bond for me. It’s just across the yard, but the rain...” She rubbed at her hip. “Would you mind terribly?”

“Of course,” he said, surprised. James hadn’t asked for tea, but he supposed this was what motherly types did — fed up their charges and made sure they stayed warm. He smiled at the thought and finished scrubbing his hands and face. The cut stung viciously, though it wasn’t bleeding as badly as he had feared. He used a clean tea towel to dry off and sat back down at the island. Patricia came to investigate his cut. “What’s the verdict? Plaster or stitches?”

She clucked. “Just a scratch,” she said, and got to work rinsing out the cut with peroxide before she applied a salve and a plaster. Her hands were gentle and sure — much kinder than the techs at Medical or the army medics had ever been. “So, there’s no one waiting back home for you? Work keeps you that busy?”

Q laughed and peered at her through hair that had gone wonky from the cobwebs and the grease and the static from pulling his jumper and shirt off. “There’s no one, but I thought I was a bit too young for you,” he teased.

“I have two daughters, if that’s to your taste. And we don’t even have to mention that one’s married,” she said dryly.

Q laughed again. “I take it the son-in-law isn’t much for being useful.”

That got him a huff as she started to pack away the first aid kit. “The less said, the better. You’ll meet my girls eventually. They come by to help out occasionally.” She binned the wrappers and went to wash her hands, wistfully saying, “I miss the days when it was busier here. The house is too big for me to manage on my own, but there’s no call to hire more help.”

As tempted as he was to ask about James’ wife, it seemed like poor timing. So he slid off the stool and admired Patricia’s handiwork. “You don’t mind if I borrow a pair of wellies, do you?”

“Oh! I knew I should’ve bought some. Take whatever fits — I’m sorry,” she said sincerely as she poured tea into a thermos. She added sugar and milk. “There should be umbrellas in the mudroom as well,” she added as she capped the thermos to give it a shake.

“All right, back in a tick,” he said, taking the thermos.

She smiled as she handed it over and told him, “Take your time.”

With a raised eyebrow at the response, Q went to the mudroom to switch out his shoes for wellies. He’d left his parka upstairs, so he borrowed a raincoat that fit well enough. Thinking Patricia expected James might ask Q to fix something, he went back inside for the toolkit Patricia had bought him. Then he tucked the thermos under his arm and went out into the rain.

The yard was gravel, though the mud was two inches deep in places, mostly along a well-worn path from the back door to a distant barn, off to the left. The barn, like the house itself, was stone, with a steep slate roof. Outside the front doors, Q saw an old truck with a flat utility bed and side walls that could be removed for large cargo.

The stable was straight back from the house. The windows set into the stone walls were small and modern, as was the air conditioning unit on a concrete pad nearby. There were paddocks to either side, with doors leading from individual stalls, or so Q presumed.

He let himself in through a normal door, and he smiled at the pleasant warmth that enveloped him. Modern wiring ensured steady, even lighting that glowed down the length of the soft earth floor, free of moisture. To either side, dark wood doors and walls separated generously sized stalls, and more than a dozen horses looked out curiously at him. Each had a clipboard hanging from an iron peg beside the stall door.

“Hello?” he called out into the stable, staying carefully in the middle of the hallway. He logically knew that horses were relatively harmless and aesthetically lovely creatures, but that didn’t stop him from imagining his fingers vanishing in the wake of an unprovoked, huge-toothed attack from one of the massive beasts. Q _needed_ his fingers, and therefore stayed as far away from the teeth as possible. “James?”

The only answer was the soft whuff of horse-breath aimed at his hair as he passed. He made it to the far end, past two box stalls that were larger than the rest, and saw a back door was slightly ajar.

He went to the door and looked out into a small yard. A massive wooden frame stood in the centre, with chains that had been dipped in black plastic, possibly to make them waterproof. Parts of the frame were wrapped and padded with more plastic. A corner of Q’s mind went back to the riding crop he’d seen in James’ bedroom, but this looked too big to be meant for a person.

 _But not a horse_ , he thought. The frame was narrow on one axis and long on the other, and tall enough that a horse could pass its head through without needing to duck too much — not that he had any expertise with horses.

He saw a very old-looking stone building with an open front that looked out into the yard. Q ventured out into the rain and saw, through the open double doors, James sitting at a workbench, running a file over a piece of metal in a vice. There was a black, filthy forge in the corner, and two anvils — one immense, one simply large — looked to be permanently mounted in the centre of what was apparently a blacksmith’s shop.

A _blacksmith_ , Q thought with some awe as he walked towards the doors. The most basic and yet incredibly skilled beginning of technology. Q had often admired such metal work, from small, finely-honed spear tips to tall, abstract, spiralling works of art, but he had never thought about exploring the craft itself. Now he found himself incredibly curious, and as he walked through the doors, his eyes were focused on James’ hands, not his face.

“I’m sorry to interrupt,” he said, looking at what James was making. It was a simple bar bent into a hoop, with thick scrollwork welded around the outside in a simple pattern of rings that stuck up over the edge of the hoop. “Patricia sent me with tea.”

James looked up from his filing as if surprised at the interruption. He glanced around the workbench and said, “Thanks. You didn’t have to come out in this weather. You’re soaked. Did the hands take all the umbrellas?”

“I thought the jacket was waterproof,” he admitted. He walked over to the workbench and passed James the tea. “That’s beautiful,” he said, nodding at the hoop.

“Pot rack for Kincaid’s eldest daughter.” He set the tea down and then picked up a large iron hook. The upper end was bent sharply back on itself, and he hung it over the hoop. It fitted almost perfectly. “It’s good practice. I should have it done by Christmas.” He offered Q the hook.

Q pushed back the sleeves of the jacket, which fit in length but was much too broad in the shoulders, causing the sleeves to slip down and cover his hands. Once the wet fabric was up to his elbows, he took the hook. “I’ve always wondered how these sorts of things were made,” he said, examining the metal. “I mean, I understand it intellectually, but that’s entirely different from watching iron heat to glowing red in a fire, isn’t it?”

James looked at him, blinking at the jacket. Then he looked deliberately away and poured some tea into the thermos cap. “For the last few years, I’ve done all the shoeing and some repairs. This is the first year I’ve made anything original. It’s not as satisfying as gunsmithing, but it’s more forgiving, in these conditions.”

Q nodded and handed the hook back. He smiled at James, admiring the flicker of firelight on his face, before looking back down at the hoop. “More freedom for creativity,” he said. Then he looked around, realising that there wasn’t much that was actually _his_ sort of technology out here. “Did you need something fixed?” he asked. “Patricia hinted that you might.”

Puzzled, James looked around the shop. It was neatly organised, with tools on pegboard racks and raw materials on shelves. Schematics for the pot rack were tacked to a corkboard on the wall. The lighting was steady — probably tied into the stable’s lights — and the forge, even banked, put out enough heat that it was pleasantly warm with the doors open.

“If you can find anything to fix,” he finally said, giving Q a shrug. “I apologise. She can be a little overwhelming, especially if she likes you.”

Q grinned at James and laughed. “She’s delightful. I’ve never had someone so appreciative of my ability to fix relatively minor issues. Well, except the doorbell. That’s not minor at all. Tomorrow, though.”

“Don’t touch it with bare skin,” James advised before he took a sip of the tea. “There’s a short somewhere, probably in the switch.”

“I’m certain it won’t take me long to fix. I just need to find the right fuse. Or I can pull them all, just to be safe, and relabel everything properly.”

“Christ, that’d take a month,” James said with a laugh. He pointed back at a stack of boxes, saying, “Have a seat. You may as well dry off before you go back out in this weather. And despite Patricia’s persuasion, you _are_ a guest. There’s no need to work yourself to death here.”

Q sat down, shivering as the wet jacket pressed against his skin. “What else am I supposed to do?” he asked, frowning. Then he sighed and shook his head, not willing to go down that road with James again. Q didn’t want to pick a fight about a subject that was entirely out of his control. “Patricia says you have a truck with a problematic engine. I’d like to have a go at it tomorrow, if you don’t mind.”

“If it’s what _you_ want, be my guest. Feel free to break it. I planned on buying a new one eventually. I’d just call it incentive.” He set down the tea and picked up the file again. He started cleaning up the edges of one of the welded pieces.

“I only break things when they belong to the enemy or need to be broken in the name of strategic advancement,” Q dismissed, watching the file on the metal. “I’ll fix the truck. Engines are simple things, particularly when you’ve taken apart and rebuilt as many as I have. They’re just massive puzzles, really.”

James paused in his filing to run his fingers over the gentle curve of metal. “Look, I know you don’t want to be here. I was thinking of going to the village tonight. It’s a risk, but you can come. Get rid of the glasses, comb your hair back — or do you normally comb it?” he asked, looking over at Q’s hair.

Q looked at him with surprise, then laughed. “I grew up in a group home, joined the army when I was seventeen, and didn’t leave it until five years ago,” he pointed out, running a hand through his hair; James watched the motion intently for a few seconds before he went back to filing. “It’s a novelty, to have hair. I quite enjoy it, really.”

“You sound like Alec.” James laughed quietly, though it wasn’t quite genuine. “The first full sentences in Russian that I learned were him complaining about his haircut in the navy.”

“He still keeps it longer than is strictly regulation,” Q said, going back to watching James’ hands. He upwardly revised his estimate of how long James and Alec had known each other, if they’d been friends when Alec was freshly on British soil. This wasn’t friendship, Q decided. It was chosen brotherhood. He thought about the portrait in the study and found himself intensely curious about what had happened to separate them. “No one complains, though.”

“I’d love to see them try. I taught him everything he knows about insubordination and bending the rules.” He put down the file, and Q saw him grinning as he loosened the vice. “And how not to get caught.”

“You were very effective, James,” Q said, shivering again as the wet jacket seemed to grow heavier on his shoulders. He wondered if he should take it off to dry, or just go back inside. But he was reluctant to leave this cosy little world James had created for himself. “He’s our best agent, but that man seems to have a pathological need to destroy every bit of tech I send him out with.”

“Mission first,” James said quietly, his smile turning a little wistful. “The only cost that matters is in lives. Everything else comes second. Including your tech.” He gave Q a brief shrug and turned the metal hoop so he could clamp down a new section.

 _What the hell are you doing here?_ Q wanted to ask as he watched. He suspected that they had been on the exact same career path. Why had James retired from the Navy while Alec joined MI6?

Q resisted the urge to point out that he’d seen his fair share of missions as well, having been enlisted for nearly a decade. Not having any friends or family to go home to meant that he volunteered for every deployment he was eligible for. He reminded himself that it was _always_ better to be underestimated, so he let it pass. He shook off his jacket, slid off the boxes, and laid the jacket on the workbench. Then he turned and looked at the schematics for the pot rack. “Where are you going in town?”

Instead of answering, James laughed. “You passed through the village. Going _to_ the village almost counts as going _everywhere_ in the village. Blink and you miss it. But the pub isn’t bad.”

“I could use a drink,” Q admitted, thumbing the edge of the drawings. “It has been one hell of a week,” he said, as if it wasn’t the understatement of the century.

“Alec told me.” James glanced at him. “If you want to talk about it, I still have my security clearance.”

Q turned back to watch the oddly hypnotic motions of the file. He _did_ want to talk about it, he realised. About how confusing it was that he just couldn’t get ahead of the game. About how humiliating it was that he’d had his arse handed to him. But security clearance or not, James wouldn’t understand any of it. He didn’t know what it was like to work in the strange microcosm that was MI6, and how dangerous it could really be. At least in the army, you always knew your friends would have your back.

“You don’t have to, of course,” James said, fingers curling as he worked the file forward, smoothing a barely visible edge. He glanced up at Q, meeting his eyes for a moment. “You don’t know me. You have no reason to trust me.”

“Alec does,” Q said with a small smile. There was something intense in James’ eyes, and Q found himself looking down at his feet, though whether it was because he was feeling deferential or exposed, Q couldn’t say.

James laughed quietly — a nice, calm sound, without malice. “He does,” he admitted, “but I earned it.” He changed the angle of the file and started working in a rhythm, filing in shorter strokes on the underside of the curve. “We both want you safe — that’s all.”

“I never wanted to be promoted, you know,” Q confessed. “It all happened very quickly. Not just the promotion, but my going from a nobody to somebody everyone thought was interesting. Eight years of tinkering, and then here’s this jolly fellow with a cigar and an exploding pen telling me I’m a genius who needs to hare off to military intelligence with him.” He smiled at the memory. “I thought he was a lunatic.”

“I met him once, after my intake interview. I didn’t put it together that the crazy old man was Boothroyd. Alec will find this Silva. He’ll find out who he’s working with, and he’ll follow the chain, wherever it goes.”

Q stared at the hoop, the conversation suddenly having many more unexpected threads than he knew what to do with. Intake interview? Had he failed? Not that Q could imagine James would fail at _anything_ he set his mind to. So why wasn’t he in MI6?

“I’m not worried about Silva,” Q said. “He was... it was...” _Humiliating_. _Exhilarating_. _A perfect game_. “I wish Alec would let me help him.” He looked up from the hoop, eyes narrowing in challenge. “Not that that’s an invitation for you to tell me again just why I’m forced into uselessness. I get it.”

James paused in his filing. “Don’t get defensive,” he said, his voice soft but stern. “I’m not your enemy.”

Q looked down and his eyes caught on his own hands, which had clenched into fists. He exhaled, finding it easier to relax under the hint of command in James’ voice than he would have liked to admit. The half-moon marks left by his fingernails in his palm tingled as they filled with blood again. “I know. I’m sorry.”

Though James went back to filing, he didn’t say anything else until Q looked up. When their eyes met, James smiled a bit slyly and said, “You’re the Quartermaster. I take it you’re good with your hands?”

“You have no idea,” Q replied with a crooked grin. He almost offered to show James just how good he could be, but bit his tongue before he made a fool of himself. “What would you like me to do?” he asked instead, leaning against the wall and changing his body language from defensive to open and inviting. It was a strategic move in the game he told himself he shouldn’t play, but it was an almost unconscious reaction, and now he wanted to see if it sparked a favourable response. Not that he intended to _do_ anything with that information. He was just bored, he told himself.

James’ eyes flicked down over Q’s body; his smile never faded. Then he sat upright, pulling his shoulders back in a stretch, and turned the file to hold it out for Q. “Take over. My back’s killing me. I may as well measure the chains.”

The reaction wasn’t quite as interested as Q hoped for, but he didn’t push any further as he took the file from James. He took James’ seat at the workbench and bent to examine the pot rack. It was beautiful, and Q was glad he’d been paying attention.

“Thank you,” he said as he started running the file over it in the exact same way he’d seen James do it. “I won’t break it.”

James laughed. “It’s iron, not glass. You’d have to work to break it. If I did it right, the weld is stronger than the base metal — and if not, better to break it now than have it come down on someone’s head.” He crossed the workshop and put a round pipe through a hole in the anvil, leaving a foot sticking up. “Tomorrow, I can show you some simple projects, if you’d like. Or you can help me with the horses.”

Q grimaced. “I’d love to help with the projects, but I think I’ll pass on the horses.” He glanced back through the double doors towards the stable, as if the mere mention of them could draw them out.

“Not a horse person?” A rattle made Q look over in time to see James effortlessly lift a thick spool of chain. He mounted it on the anvil and turned it, searching for the end.

“I consider it a risky prospect to cavort with things that can eat you if they feel like it,” Q said, fully aware that he was bringing ridicule down on himself.

“The frame out there cuts down substantially on the risk of flesh-eating horses,” James said as he unwired the end of the chain. He tossed the wire into a barrel of scraps on the way to the pegboard, where he took down a measuring tape. “It’s easier than trying to shoe them with bare hands and luck.”

“Why do horses need to be shoed?” Q asked absently as he focused on his work, thoughts of testing James’ interests and limits vanishing as Q experimented with speed and angle. “Horses in nature don’t need it. And people got along for centuries without their horses being shoed. And other hooved animals get along just fine.”

“It’s ‘shod’, not ‘shoed’,” he corrected with a faint smile. “And it has to do with loads and ground. A horse carrying no loads on natural ground won’t need shoes. Put a man on the horse’s back or have the horse pull a cart, and now you’re putting extra weight on its hooves. Ride on hard trails, gravel, or asphalt, and you’re wearing the hooves down dangerously. There are shoes that add traction or are for specific surfaces, but I don’t shoe for racing.” He laughed as he started measuring out a length of chain. “I’m debating if I even want to be serious about getting into racing at all.”

“You’re tall and muscular,” Q objected, moving the file more slowly than he’d seen James do it, but unable to go faster without risking his control yet. “Aren’t horse racers supposed to be short and tiny?”

“Precisely. They’re _my_ horses — not for someone else to ride.” The possessive tone in James’ voice sent a delicious shiver down Q’s spine, though he didn’t look up. James pulled the chain away from the spool with a loud rattle, measuring it against the tape. “I don’t mind loaning them out — to a guest, for example. But a competition’s a different matter.”

Q tried to focus on his work, but apparently today was a day for distraction. He stopped filing and watching James’ hands as he expertly manipulated the chain. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask to borrow one,” he assured James.

“You’ll need to learn to ride well enough to escape. If you like it enough, I can teach you how to shoot from horseback. But I at least want you competent and able to find your way around the property and into the forest. Hand me that chalk,” he said, pointing to the workbench.

Q looked to where James was pointing and picked up the chalk. He stood and brought it over. “I can shoot from any moving vehicle. I’m sure horses are no different. But I’d really rather not ride one.”

“That’s unfortunate, since they’re your best means of escape. You’ll learn,” James said, looking directly at him. “I won’t let any harm come to you. But you _will_ learn, if I have to tie you to the saddle myself.”

Q's breath caught at the idea of being tied to anything by James; he was glad that the low flicker of firelight hid it. He held out the chalk. “Here.”

“Thanks.” James took the chalk and marked off the link he was holding in his fingers. He set the chalk on the anvil, draped the marked link over the end, and went to the pegboard to take down bolt cutters. “It’s not exciting, but the best way to start is by making nails, if you’re interested.”

“Nails,” Q repeated, watching James from over his shoulder. “It never occurred to me that one could actually _make_ nails. I’d love to try, but I really should fix your engine tomorrow, too. I promised Patricia, and it shouldn’t take very long.”

“Tomorrow’s Sunday. She’ll be here in the morning to do the day’s baking, and then off to church and then the village to see her daughters.” James threw a smirk at Q before he took a pair of safety glasses from his shirt pocket, under his jumper, and put them on. “I won’t tell if you won’t. Stand back,” he warned, opening the bolt cutters and trapping half the link in the jaws.

Q felt a flush at the conspiratorial tone, thinking about other things they could do when the house was empty. Then he stepped away and seated himself back at the workbench, keeping his eyes trained down at the pot rack.

The link gave way with a loud snap, followed by a second as James cut the other half of the link. Metal rang out as he freed the length of chain. Then he leaned over and coiled the chain on the workbench. “Assuming I didn’t completely cock up the plans, the four hanging rings at the top should be equidistant. Can you check them for me?”

Q nodded and found the rings, hidden by decorative elements welded to the outside of the hoop. As James continued to measure and cut chain, Q used another measuring tape to check the distance between each ring. Finally, he said, “You’ll be happy to know that you did excellent work, James.”

James paused in measuring the chain and gave Q a grin. “Christmas is still on schedule, in that case,” he approved. “Is there anything you’d like made for your house? Coat hooks? Lucky horseshoe? One that’s human-friendly and free of bloodshed,” he added.

“I’d love to have a James Bond original,” Q said with a smile. “I think I’d rather you surprised me, though.”

James looked back; his smile was pleased. “Fortunately, I’m very good at improvisation,” he said, turning back to cut the next length of chain.

Q laughed quietly, feeling the last vestiges of his self-control starting to slip. For being in a damn blacksmith’s shop, he was feeling far, far too turned-on. The chains, the leather, the fire...  The casual, efficient way James spoke to him — never asking, always respectfully but firmly demanding — lit sparks in his imagination, and the possibilities widened and expanded in a myriad of fantastic ways. Somewhere along the line, curiosity and attraction had escalated, and Q now _wanted_ James, he realised with something of a shock.

“I can’t wait to find out just how good,” he said under his breath.


	5. Chapter 5

**Saturday, 17 November 2012**

They spent an hour in the smithy — an hour of innuendos and glances and _interest_ crackling between them, testing James’ resolve not to act on his increasing desire for his not-so-young, not-so-fragile houseguest. James was used to denying himself, so it should have been easy. His casual lovers firmly drew the line at a little light bondage, teasing, spanking at most. And usually, that little edge of submission was enough.

But Q... James suspected that ‘little edge’ wasn’t enough for him, either. Not with his boldly teasing words and his downcast eyes. He didn’t fold under pressure, but he _responded_ to it. James had no doubt that Q was perfectly capable of saying no; he simply hadn’t given James a reason to think he would.

Thankfully, James was saved from himself by Q’s incessant yawning. Since James was ahead of schedule on the pot rack, he cleaned up the workshop and insisted on getting Q back to the house. The rain had given way to unpleasant wet snow that probably wouldn’t stick, unless a cold snap came in some time in the pre-dawn hours. For now, though, the chill was enough that Q was shivering even wrapped up in his jacket. As in, _James’_ jacket, though surely Q hadn’t known that when he’d taken it from the hook.

Not that James was at all willing to think of how bloody adorable he was, nearly drowning in it. And he definitely refused to remember someone else who’d had a habit of stealing his coats, claiming they were warmer than thick, exotic furs or the finest angora.

He got Q inside and passed over to Patricia, who was a godsend. She took one look at the boy and herded him straight upstairs. James retreated to the study, listening to the rattle of old pipes as Patricia filled the tub in the guest bath, doing her part to prevent Q from going into shock.

For his part, the most consideration James got was a cup of tea and a lecture about exposing ‘that poor dear city boy’ to Scotland’s frigid northern weather. He was fairly sure her loyalty had been suddenly misplaced, but he made no effort to remind her that she’d been working for _his_ family since before he’d been born. He rather liked the idea that she was taking care of Q. It meant James didn’t have to worry.

Dinner was also easily endured. As was his habit, James ate alone in the dining hall with a book in one hand. Soon after coming back to Skyfall Lodge, James had invited Patricia and Kincaid to stay for dinner, but they’d refused every time, even though it meant twice the cooking for Patricia — first at Skyfall, and then at her home. James finally convinced her to do most of her cooking for all of them and then to simply take home their share to reheat at their cottage down the road.

After a while, when the loneliness had eased, he’d come to enjoy the quiet. Now, though, he was all too aware that someone else was here with him, even sleeping.

By eight, James was in the parlour, lying on the sofa with his book and a glass of scotch. Normally, he would’ve left for the village by seven, but he didn’t want to leave Q to wake alone. More to the point, he _wouldn’t_ leave Q unguarded.

It was well after eleven when Q came down the stairs quietly, still yawning. He was dressed in new clothes similar to what he’d been wearing earlier — jeans, pullover, and a jumper, this one blue instead of green. He had the gun and belt in his hand, which he dropped on the table in front of James.

“Evening,” Q said with another stifled yawn as he sat in a chair across from James.

James sat up and put his book aside. It was a chewed-up paperback he’d got from the secondhand shop in town. They reserved all the books that came in so he could have first crack at them, since he tended to buy them by the crate. “How’d you sleep? Is the bed all right?”

“It’s fine,” Q said with a shrug. “Too bloody quiet, though. Alec didn’t let me bring my phone or MP3 player. I won’t get much sleep while I’m here.” He let his head fall to the side, where it rested against the chair. Bits of his hair stuck up on the fabric, clinging vertically thanks to static electricity.

“I have an iPod somewhere. I can dig it out for you,” James offered. He looked at Q and added sternly, “You can’t sync it to your music, unless you can assure me it would be untraceable. If not, you can buy whatever you’d like.”

Q closed his eyes and yawned again. “I’m sure whatever you have on it is fine. Unless it’s yodelling. But you don’t seem like the type to listen to yodelling. Or be a yodeller,” he said quietly, not opening his eyes. “Or maybe I’m just thinking of stereotypes. How the fuck do I know what a yodeller looks like?”

James smiled and picked up his drink to finish it. He set the empty glass down and rose. “Come help me find it,” he lied, thinking he should get Q back into bed. _Into the guest bed_ , he added mentally.

Q looked up, blinking sleepily at James. “Find what?” he asked.

“The iPod.” James circled around the coffee table and picked up Q’s gun. Deciding Q was too sleepy to be trusted with it, he shoved it into the back of his waistband and left the belt on the table. He held out his hands to Q. “Up you get.”

Q blinked again, and he stared at James’ hands for a moment with a frown on his face. He finally offered his own, but cautiously and slowly. James took gentle hold and tugged Q up to his feet, catching him with an arm around his waist. He was surprisingly thin — perhaps even dangerously so — and James suspected that if Q couldn’t make it up the stairs under his own power, it would be easy enough to carry him.

At the first touch of James’ arm around his waist, Q froze for a moment — a reaction so brief that James almost missed it. Then Q muttered something under his breath and leaned against him. “I might need to wake up a bit before we go to the pub,” he said more loudly, resting his head on James’ shoulder. “I haven’t slept much this week.”

“You don’t need to stay up, you know. You can sleep all you want,” he assured Q as he started towards the foyer.

“It’s very quiet here,” Q repeated. “You must enjoy the silence.”

“It wasn’t my intent to end up here, but I’ve grown used to it,” James admitted with rare honesty. He suspected Q would remember none of this tomorrow. “Can you make it up the stairs, or shall I carry you?”

“That’s the wrong way,” Q said, puzzled. “Oh, iPod.” He stepped out of James’ arms and clutched the railing. He looked up towards the second floor, then back at James. “Where are we going?”

“You said it: iPod. It’s upstairs,” James said, putting a hand on Q’s back. He could feel every bump of vertebrae, and he ran his fingers down and back up, thoughtlessly tracing the ridges before he froze. Cursing himself, he said, “You’ll need to plug it in to charge it. There’s an open outlet in your room.”

But Q didn’t pull away from his hand; he closed his eyes again and let his body drift closer to the touch. “All right,” he said after a moment. “Charge the iPod.” Then he started dutifully making his way upstairs.

James followed, bracing Q carefully, wary of a fall. Once they were at the top of the stairs, James paused and casually suggested, “Why don’t you go find the outlet close to your bed, so you can listen to it while it charges?”

Q nodded, staring down the hallway. “I hope I don’t have to fix it. Electrical things seem cursed here. I don’t know where I put my tools.” He looked back down the stairs speculatively.

“I’ll look for them,” James said, making a mental note to do that tomorrow morning. He started steering Q towards his room. “And it should be just fine. It’s brand new.”

“Patricia chose very fine tools,” Q said. “She’s very nice. She’s going to make me apple pie because I cleaned and fixed the oven. No one’s made me a pie before. I should do something for her.”

“You did. You cleaned the oven,” James pointed out logically, pulling Q close to his side as they passed the loose section of the bannister. He stopped at the guest room and pushed the door open. “She’ll be back first thing tomorrow to bake your pie,” he said rather inanely, wondering how he could get Q into the bedroom and into the bed without actually escorting him there. Without direction, Q was likely to just lurk wherever James left him.

“I didn’t fix the doorbell,” Q muttered, staring into the room. “That goes on the list. People I like don’t deserve to get randomly electrocuted by uncooperative doorbells.”

A little push got Q moving again. James led him carefully around the desk chair in the guest study and into the bedroom. He reached to the side to turn on the light, but the switch did nothing; Q must have turned off the bedside lamp when he’d gone to sleep.

“You can fix it tomorrow. She’ll like that,” James said soothingly.

Q nodded thoughtfully. “All right,” he said. Then he looked around. “Where is the iPod?” he asked, tone confused. “I couldn’t bring mine. Alec wouldn’t let me take anything, the pushy bastard.”

“I’m going to find it. You need to wait here, though.” James got Q the last few feet to the side of the bed and put a hand on his shoulder, though he didn’t push Q down. Q was standing close, and sleepiness had made him softly compliant. Instead of touching, James thought it better to say, “Lie down, Q.”

In retrospect, that might not have been the best idea, as James’ vivid imagination painted pictures of what should by all rights have happened next.

Prudently, he stepped back away from the bed before he could act on those images.

With another nod, Q took hold of the bottom of his jumper and pulled it off, over his head. The pullover and vest got caught up in the tangle, and soon Q was shirtless, letting the clothes drop to the floor. He fell onto the bed, hair sticking up everywhere, arms under his head, Army tattoo standing out brightly against the pale skin. It was the full insignia — crossed swords, lion, and crown — and it was absolutely exquisite. James stared, wishing he dared to turn on the bedside light to see it more clearly. Unconcerned about James’ scrutiny, Q shuffled to the edge to look for the outlet next to the bed. Then he stilled, apparently falling back asleep.

Gently, James moved Q’s arm back into bed. Then, because Q had laid down on the bedding, James reached over to fold the quilts over him, wrapping him up. Patricia must have turned on the radiator valve for these rooms; usually it was off. It wasn’t quite enough to drive off the chill, though, and James was tempted to build up a fire, but he didn’t know if Q was a light sleeper. Instead, he gently slid off Q’s glasses, folded them, and then set them on the bedside table.

He resisted the urge to touch Q’s hair. It trailed over his face in soft, messy curls. Strands were caught in the stubble edging his jaw.

With a faint sigh, James set Q’s gun on the far side of the bedside table, where he’d have to intentionally take hold of it. Then he left, not allowing himself another glance back.

 

~~~

 

**Sunday, 18 November 2012**

Something wasn’t right.

Q sat up slowly, letting the quilt fall from his shoulders and chest, and strained every sense to figure out what the hell was going on. The bed was softer than he generally liked. The worst part, Q decided as he squinted in the gloom, was the _silence_. There was no hum of a computer fan, no rattle of cars on a nearby motorway, no chatter of pedestrians as they went about their routines. Hell, even the familiar sound of wind rushing through tall buildings was absent, and it set Q on edge.

He rolled out of bed, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes, and blinked. The room was chilly and nearly empty except for the bed and a scattering of bedroom furniture, dark and unlit except for the warm glow of sunlight through closed curtains. Q automatically fumbled at the bedside table for his mobile, but couldn’t find anything but his glasses and an unfamiliar handgun.

Q wasn’t at his best, first thing in the morning, but the sight of the handgun sparked his memory. _James_. Handsome, commanding, overprotective James Bond.

With a sigh, Q went to the window and pushed open the curtains. The sight of gloomy, early dawn moors dotted with livestock, horses, and dogs immediately drove away the rest of Q’s sleep fog. Alec Trevelyan. Silva. Banishment from technology.

With a frown, Q turned and surveyed the room, rubbing his hands over his cold, bare chest and arms. A puddle of colourful fabric next to the bed appeared to be what he’d been wearing last night. Wary of spiders, he sorted out the layers of shirts and pulled everything on, craving the warmth and softness.

Then he headed out of his rooms to go looking for people, though he didn’t know who he wanted to see more: James, gorgeous and caring and commanding, or Patricia, who’d surely take pity on Q and want to feed him.

With that thought in mind, the kitchen seemed the natural place to start, and Q didn’t fight the draw of delicious-smelling coffee and baked goods. The hardwood floors were freezing under his feet, but he’d go back for socks later, he decided. Coffee always came first.

He found the kitchen empty of people but full of the most incredible aromas. Cloth-covered shapes along the breakfast bar proved to be a loaf of hot bread, a half-dozen scones, and Q’s promised apple pie. Two insulated carafes nearby held tea and coffee. There was a covered plate as well, holding cheese and two ceramic pots, one of jam, one of more honey butter.

With a heartfelt groan of appreciation, Q searched the cupboards until he found coffee mugs, plates, and cutlery. He poured as much coffee as would fit in the mug, cut himself a sliver of pie, and carefully sliced off a piece of bread. Deciding pie was more than enough sugar for the morning, he forwent the jam and butter in favour of eating the warm bread plain.

It was _fantastic_. Q wondered if he could find his own version of Patricia to come back with him to his London flat.

He heard the outer door open, and a minute later, the door from the mudroom opened, followed by the sound of sharp scratching on the wood floor. He turned and was surprised to see a small, shaggy terrier wearing an electric blue knitted jumper that covered it from collar to just above its tail, wrapping around its forelegs all the way to its paws. It leaped ineffectively at Q, growling in a vaguely dangerous way.

“Easy there, Toto,” Q muttered, tucking his feet up under himself in case it was an ankle biter. He looked around for something to feed the dog — he’d never had one, but assumed they liked things of the meaty variety — but the only thing that seemed remotely worth offering was cheese. He reached for a slice and tossed it at the shaggy creature. It leaped up and caught it with perfect accuracy, and then flopped right down to gnaw through it.

“You’re awake,” James said as he walked in. His hair was wet, and his blue jeans were soaked from thighs to mid-calf. He closed the mudroom door, blinked at the breakfast Q was eating, and asked, “How did you sleep?”

“Like the dead,” Q said, taking in James’ roguish scruffiness. He’d obviously been awake for hours, doing whatever it was that people did on farms first thing in the morning, and hadn’t even shaved yet. Q had an irrational urge to rub his hand over James’ blond stubble. He turned back to his plate to hide his smile behind his cup of coffee. “I don’t even remember going to sleep. Sorry for standing you up for the pub last night. I hope you went without me.”

“You obviously needed it. Were you warm enough? I can look at the radiator pipes, make sure all the valves are open. Your room was a little cold last night,” he said as he gathered up dishes for himself.

Q stared at him, trying to think of a way to delicately ask what James had been doing in his room. “Was it?” he asked, watching James. “I’m not much use when I’m exhausted. I don’t remember.”

James laughed quietly as he set down a plate and mug. He poured himself tea, leaving it black, and flexed cold-reddened hands before he reached for the bread knife. As he started slicing into the hot loaf, he said, “You made it all the way downstairs, but you were in no shape to go anywhere but back to sleep. I saw Patricia had laid a fire in your room, so the chimney’s clear. I can show you how to build one tonight, if necessary.”

“I made it downstairs? That explains the being dressed. Thanks for realising that I was sleepwalking,” Q said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry; I probably won’t do it again. I don’t usually sleep much, but the stress of last week...” He shook his head. “I should be caught up now.” He finished the last of his coffee and reached for the carafe to pour a second cup.

“Consider it a holiday.” James cut open one of the scones, adding jam. He glanced down at the dog, which was now sitting at Q’s feet, staring at him as if attempting to telepathically influence him into dropping more cheese. “That’s Holly. She belongs to Patricia’s youngest. She has the run of the property, and sometimes ends up staying here. The rest of the dogs stay in the kennels.”

“A holiday,” Q repeated, the thought an amusing one. He took a bite of the apple pie and hummed at the exquisite flavour. “I think I need to keep being useful so Patricia will keep baking pies,” he said with a grin.

“She’s obviously adopted you, so no danger there.” James picked up his mug and plate and gave Q another puzzled look. “Is the dining room heater not working?”

“I have no idea,” Q said with a shrug before it occurred to him what James was actually saying. “Oh. Sorry.” He tossed the dog another piece of cheese to distract it while he stood from the stool.

“Stay. It’s fine,” James said with an amused smile. After a moment’s consideration, he set down his plate and mug beside Q and sat down, with the terrier between them. “We usually eat in the dining room. This is Patricia’s kingdom.”

Q laughed and sat back down as well. “And what a glorious place it is, too. She reminds me of my friend Danielle. They’re about the same age, same temperament. Danielle has been the second in command at Q Branch forever. I don’t think it could actually effectively run without her.”

“I never met her. Let me guess. She either adores Alec or can’t tolerate him, even in passing,” James guessed, starting on his breakfast.

“Adores him,” Q confirmed, smirking at James. “Brings him casseroles when he checks equipment in after long missions.”

James’ grin lit up his whole face. “Good. He should never be allowed within fifty feet of a kitchen,” he said fondly. “At least he’s not starving between missions.”

“You two have known each other awhile, then,” Q asked as he scooped up another bite of apple pie.

“Almost twenty years, since BRNC. The naval college,” he clarified. “We were in 030 SFU together.”

“Ah,” Q said around his mouthful of pie. He chewed and swallowed, blissfully thinking of ways to keep Patricia pleased with him the entire time he was here. “That explains your gorgeous sniper rifle collection. If you need any of the sights fixed, let me know.”

“I do most of my hunting with my father’s rifle. Not much call for sniping out here,” James said casually, though Q recognised the evasion for what it was. He didn’t think it was because James didn’t want him touching the rifles; more likely, he kept his full armoury in perfect condition, preparing for the worst, and didn’t want to admit it to an outsider. For all his casual demeanour and appearance and the civilian lifestyle he’d lived for years, Q had no doubt that James kept himself every bit as sharp as any of the active duty field agents.

Q nodded and went back to his breakfast. He ate the pie slowly, savouring every bite, and went through another cup of coffee while he was at it. He tackled the bread with the third cup of coffee, tearing off small flavourful pieces as he went. He got crumbs everywhere, despite his best efforts, and it reminded him to ask about something.

“Do you have any old clothes you don’t mind if I ruin?” he asked James, glancing over. “The new ones Patricia got me are too nice to spoil with engine grease.”

“We’ll find something later.” James looked at him a bit warily. “You have a riding lesson, remember?”

Q’s hands tightened around the coffee cup. “Oh, right,” he said. He popped another piece of bread in his mouth before he could do anything as foolish as protest. Maybe he’d get lucky and the beast would kick him off in the first five minutes, and that would be that. He washed the bread down with more coffee, and looked at the mudroom. “Will my parka be fine?”

“You can wear one of my jackets. It’s not snowing anymore, but there’s no sense getting your parka muddy. You’ll probably have a couple of spills, but that’s to be expected.” James’ smile turned reassuring. “Thor’s not very big. You won’t have far to fall.”

“A couple of spills,” Q repeated, resolutely staring at his coffee. He refilled the tiny cup for the fourth time and shook his head, then turned to stare at James. “Thor?”

“Not my decision,” James said immediately. “Thor’s small, sweet, and perfect for a novice rider. Plus, she’s a mare.”

Q stared for a moment longer, then laughed. “A small, sweet, girl horse called Thor,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me guess. One of the daughters.”

“The granddaughter, actually.” James grinned. “See? This won’t be so bad. I promise, I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Q couldn’t help staring at James’ far-too-engaging grin, and answering it with his own. “Fine. But I’ll need more coffee for this,” he warned, standing to take his now-empty plate over to the sink.

James reached over to give the coffee carafe a shake. “Any more coffee and you’ll be buzzing. Tell me you haven’t been feeding yourself sugar as well,” he said, looking at the apple pie. “ _More_ sugar, that is.”

“It was a little slice,” Q defended, doing a quick mental check to recall which cupboard Patricia had pulled the thermos from last night. “And no. No jam or honey butter or scones. So relax. I won’t scare the horses with an OD.”

“Good. Go put your boots on. Do you get cold easily? I have thermals you can use, if that would help.”

“That’s probably a good idea,” Q admitted as he located the cupboard and pulled a thermos free. “Especially if you expect me to get bucked off. With my luck, I’ll land in only the biggest, coldest puddles in the moor.”

James got up, dropping a crust of bread for the terrier. “Come upstairs after you’ve started the coffee. I’ll go find the thermals,” he said, patting his leg as he walked out. The terrier picked up the crust and scrambled after James.

 

~~~

 

The oddly-named Thor was one of James’ recent acquisitions, purchased as a favour for her old owner, a villager who’d moved to Edinburgh and had to leave her behind. Unlike the powerful hunters in the stable, Thor was small and easy-going, accustomed to a life of carrying tourists and pleasure riders. She stood with one hoof cocked, head drowsily down, and allowed James to saddle her without protest — unlike Exeter, who always tried to crush him against the walls despite the cross-ties. Much as James liked spirited animals, he had to admit that dealing with Thor was a pleasant change.

He didn’t have a mounting block, so he secured Thor in the stable aisle and beckoned Q, who was lurking well out of the way. “Let’s get you started. Come around this side,” James said.

Q took a step forward, but then hesitated. “I did tell you’ve I’ve never, in my life, ridden anything that didn’t have a motor, right?” he said, watching Thor’s face warily. “Not even a pony at a fair.”

“She’s much less likely to break down.” Hiding his amusement, James beckoned Q again. “People have been doing this without saddles for thousands of years. You’ll be perfectly safe.”

“As if anything of mine would _ever_ break down,” Q said, though the tone wasn’t nearly as derisive as it could have been. “Not to mention that people still die from falling off or being kicked by horses.” But he looked away from Thor, focusing on James’ hands on the stirrup and Thor’s neck, and inched closer.

It was like coaxing a half-tame beast out of the brush, and James wondered if he should’ve brought a pocketful of sweets as rewards. “Thor’s carried toddlers and pregnant women. She’s very gentle,” he said calmly. He let go of the stirrup and held out his hand to Q. “Remember I told you I built the shoeing frame? I don’t need that with her. She stands there and lets me do whatever’s necessary to her hooves.”

Q took another wary step forward and grasped James’ hand. “It would be very poor form for the Quartermaster of MI6’s cause of death to be ‘trampled by a horse’, you know.” One more step, and he was next to James.

“I’m much more creative when I want to kill someone,” James said truthfully. He pulled Q a bit closer, lined up with the saddle, and squeezed his hand reassuringly. “Left foot in the stirrup. I’ll give you a boost up. Swing your right leg back and over. You can hold onto the front of the saddle for balance, but I won’t let you fall.”

Q’s grip tightened almost painfully on James’ hand, but he did as he was asked. He held onto the front of the saddle, lifted his foot into the stirrup, and swung his leg over. James caught his hips and guided him, giving a little push when it looked like he might change his mind and try to drop back down. Even under the layers of denim and wool thermals, Q’s arse and thigh were tight, without an extra ounce of flesh, and James had to force himself to pull his hand away.

Q sat in the saddle, frozen in place. He stared ahead, not looking down at the horse, back ramrod straight. “Now what?” he asked tightly.

“Now relax,” James said, brushing his fingers over Q’s thigh before he picked up the reins. Thor lifted her head, turning to regard James and Q with one eye. “Take the reins. You don’t need to pull hard; a light touch will do.”

With a short nod, Q took the reins, holding them just as tightly as he’d held James’ hand. Then something seemed to occur to him, and he looked over at the ground by where he’d been standing earlier. “May I have my coffee, please?”

“I’ll get it for you in a minute,” James said, thinking that Q was working himself up to cardiac arrest. He took hold of Q’s hands, adjusting the position and tension of the reins. Thor let out a huff, and Q tensed his legs. “Easy,” James said to both of them, covering Q’s hands with his own to give another reassuring squeeze. “Riding a horse is like shagging. If you’re too tense, it’s not fun for anyone involved.”

“Well, if I knew the horse-riding equivalent of faking it, I’d do it for you, but relaxing isn’t really an option,” Q said with a tight smile.

James huffed in amusement and unclipped Thor’s halter lead. “I’m going to walk you out to the yard. A little nudge with your heels will get her moving forward. A gentle pull on the left rein turns left, right turns right, and pull both back to stop. Don’t tug sharply, even if you panic. It’s rude.”

“Can’t disappoint Patricia with rudeness towards her granddaughter’s horse, now can I?” Q replied with another tight smile, though he loosened his grip marginally.

Gently, James grasped one rein and started walking. Thor followed along, head rising and falling. Deeper in the stable, Exter gave a huff and stomped the floor, shoe ringing on the concrete below the dust and straw. “You’ll see the differences between our horses, and you’ll be glad I bought Thor. Normally I wouldn’t have, but Kincaid’s grandson will be too old for the ponies, soon. And no, you can’t ride a pony,” James added, looking back to grin at Q.

“Damn right,” Q said with a little laugh. “Someone would film it on their mobile, it would get around to my coworkers, and I’d never live it down. Of all the people you don’t want to lose respect for you, MI6 field agents are at the top of the list.”

“I taught Alec how to ride,” James said with a faint smile, remembering their first holiday together at Skyfall while on leave. “By the end of the fortnight, he was an expert.” At the stable doors, he picked up the thermos Q had left on the shelf and tucked it into the left forward saddlebag. “There’s a first aid kit and emergency flare in the right saddlebag. I don’t expect you’ll need to use it, but it’s best to be prepared.”

“And I suppose Alec didn’t have any qualms about riding horses when he started,” Q said, eyes flicking over the saddlebags. “I can’t imagine him being nervous about anything. Even if he was, I can’t imagine that he’d show it.”

“True.” James led Thor out into the stableyard, where the rain made her whuff out a breath. The gate was closed, so James let go of the rein and patted her neck as he turned back to Q. “I’ll meet you out here shortly. Walk her around a few times.”

Q’s hands tightened on the reins again, and looked down at James, eyes wide. But he merely nodded and gently pushed his heels against Thor’s sides to get her moving.

After assuring himself that Q wasn’t going to panic, James went back inside. He slung his rifle over one shoulder, unclipped Exeter from the cross ties, and mounted. Exeter danced and fought the reins for a minute before settling down. James rode him out and manoeuvred the horse around at the stable doors. He leaned over enough to pull the doors closed, and then looked to Q.

“Doing all right?”

Q gave him a deer-in-the-headlights sort of look, but then quickly schooled his expression into something a little more calm. “Nothing to report,” he said, pulling the reins lightly to halt Thor.

Fortunately, Thor was biddable enough that James was able to bring Exeter close; even Exeter’s ridiculous prancing and head-tossing weren’t going to spook her. “We’ll stick to a walk. If you want to go faster, stand up and lean forward,” James said, and demonstrated, though he tugged Exeter’s reins hard to keep the horse from assuming it was time to run. “I can show you how to post through a trot later; for now, standing works just as well.”

“Standing. On a horse.” Q gave James another _look_ , and shook his head. “I’m perfectly content to walk, I think.”

James grinned, resisting the urge to show off, and nudged Exeter into a walk for the gate. There, he leaned down and swung the gate open, neatly turned Exeter, and went through. Thor followed, and as soon as she was through the gate, James kicked it closed.

A sharp whistle summoned his deerhounds from where they dozed in the barn, off-lead. Most of the pack was penned, but his eldest could be trusted to roam loose. “That’s Dobrinya and Tsar-ptitsa,” he said, indicating the dog and bitch in turn. “They usually come with me for morning rides.”

“Did Alec name them?” Q asked curiously, looking down at the dogs.

“He hasn’t met them,” James said, feeling a twinge of regret. “We used to use stories — legends — for language practice. Dobrinya is a dragonslayer and master chess player. Tsar-ptitsa means firebird or phoenix.” He eased up on the reins, allowing Exeter to move into a faster walk. “The dogs all have Russian names. The horses are all Navy ships.”

“I name my computers and servers after characters in the Tolkien books,” Q said, voice becoming just a little less tense with the conversation. “Suddenly that seems very mundane.”

“Considering the political climate, if you start naming your servers after Russian folk heroes, you’d probably end up in an interrogation cell,” James pointed out. “That or get a medal for bloody political correctness.”

“Neither of those things scares me very much,” Q said with a light laugh. “Besides, no one sees them but me. I don’t need to practise any languages though, so I would probably have to come up with some other reason.”

 _“Parli Italiano?”_ James asked, glancing back at Q.

“ _Si, e il russo, e cinese, e arabo, e spagnolo, e molti altri,_ ” Q replied with a shrug.

James grinned. “No wonder Alec likes you so much. He has no tolerance for anyone who can’t speak at least three languages. He’s bloody brilliant, you know. He just hides it.”

“I know,” Q said. “I’ve been his handler on enough missions to know.” He threw a glance over at James, smiling softly. “I wouldn’t let just anyone drag me off to some random bloke’s no-tech farm in the middle of nowhere, you know.”

“Good. It’s good to know someone’s watching out for him,” James said, looking out into the rain. He spared a moment’s thought to wonder what Alec was doing now, but that was all he allowed himself. If he thought about it too much, he’d go mad with worry. “He’ll find Silva. He’ll find his informant at MI6. You know that, don’t you?”

Q looked at James, something dark and complicated in his expression, then looked away, back down to the horse. “Where are we going?”

He wanted to go back to London. Back to MI6 and his computers. James could see it clearly. This was an unfamiliar world for Q, but any sympathy James felt was tempered by the knowledge that Alec was risking his life — possibly his career as well — to keep Q safe.

“Just to the edge of the forest and back,” he said, turning his attention to the rainy landscape. “We’ll go easy, since it’s your first day.”

“For once, I’m going to say easy is good,” Q replied.

James clenched his hands around the reins, glad his back was turned. _For once_... He took a deep breath and reminded himself to focus on their surroundings and Q’s inexperience.

But he’d never been so grateful that he wasn’t in the habit of carrying a riding crop. There was only so much temptation he could endure.


	6. Chapter 6

**Sunday, 18 November 2012**

Q all but fell off the horse when they got back to the stable, though he did his level best not to show James just how much he desperately wanted to get far, far away from Thor. He’d only fallen off twice, and he’d had perfect marksmanship during the quick shooting practice, but he felt like someone had thrown him in a steel drum and shaken it up. He was stiff, sore, achy from where he’d hit the ground, and ready for nothing more than coffee, pie, and perhaps the longest bath he’d ever taken in his life.

With a trembling hand, he reached for the coffee thermos, despite the fact that he knew it was empty. He eyed Thor warily as he pulled it free and then took several steps back. “What do I need to do to get her ready for her stable?” he asked James, turning to watch the unfairly graceful way he dismounted. Unlike Q, there wasn’t a hint of stiffness or discomfort — only confidence, ease, and control.

“I’ll take care of her. You should go walk around. It’ll help keep you from getting too stiff.” James led Exeter deeper into the stable to clip ropes to either side of his halter.

“I need caffeine,” Q complained quietly. “I’m going to head for the kitchen. Want anything?”

James nodded. “Coffee or tea would be fine, thanks.”

Q breathed out and nodded, but didn’t move right away. He leaned against the side of the stable and gave himself a moment to watch James as he moved effortlessly around the horses. It was like something in an American western, minus the sand and the constant threat of hostiles. Q told himself that he wasn’t staring, and then went ahead and did just that. “Pie, too?” he asked, as if it gave him a reason to stay and watch.

“Hard to eat pie and brush the horses, unless you’re going to feed me,” James said with a little laugh as he came back around to the saddle. He flipped one side up to unbuckle the strap that went around the horse’s body. Then he pulled the whole thing off effortlessly, despite how much all that leather and wood probably weighed.

Q swallowed the urge to offer exactly that, though he didn’t hide a lewd smile he knew James couldn’t see while he was turned away. “I meant with coffee. Do you want a slice?”

James dropped a quilted pad onto a shelf and then transferred the saddle to a log stuck horizontally against the wall, with several other saddles racked nearby. “Sure, though I’ll be about half an hour. Take your time,” he said, going to where Thor was mouthing at the straw on the floor. She stood still while he turned up the side flap of her saddle.

“All right,” Q said, reluctantly turning away. He made his way back to the kitchen, every step far more jarring than it should have felt. With creaky movements that made Q feel like his body was deeply angry with him, he set about making coffee, taking longer to search the cupboards for everything he needed than he thought was strictly reasonable. Once the coffee was brewing, he turned the oven on its lowest setting and slid the pie in. Then he made his way upstairs for a shower. A long soak in the huge tub tempted him, but he had work to do on the old truck.

Twenty minutes later, he came back downstairs to the smell of hot apples and coffee. He’d dressed in comfortable clothes — pyjama bottoms and a pullover — because he wanted to work on the engine next. If James didn’t have any throw-away clothes for him, better Q ruined pyjamas than jeans. He could sleep naked if he had to, after all.

James was in the kitchen, boots and jumper off, throwing bits of bread crust to the jumper-wearing dog. “Feel better after your shower?” he asked, dropping the last piece of crust so he could pick up oven mitts.

“Marginally,” he said, still walking stiffly. He gave James a somewhat accusing stare. “You could at least look a _little_ sore, just to make me feel less like a pansy.”

Instead of taking offence, James laughed. He opened the oven door to take out the reheated pie, which he set on the counter. “I would be a bit nicer, were I you,” he said teasingly as he went to the fridge. “In an hour or so, you might well be asking me to carry you upstairs so you can have a hot bath.” He took out a heavy pot, which he slid into the oven.

“Oh god, it gets worse?” Q asked in horror. He sat at the island, curling his legs underneath him. “I’m nice. I’m going to make your truck run like she’s new. I just need clothes.”

James paused in the act of pouring two cups of coffee to look Q over. “You don’t _look_ naked. Rather comfortable, I’d say,” he murmured, sliding a cup over to Q.

“If I wear my nice, new clothes to work on your engine and anything else that needs a tech’s touch around here, I’ll soon be out of clothes, and then I truly _will_ be naked,” Q replied, grinning up at James through his wet, uncombed hair. “Not that I’d mind running around in my skivvies, really, except for how damn cold it is here, and the fact that Patricia would probably object.”

James’ eyes fixed on him for a few seconds too long before he turned away again. He stared around, murmuring, “Let’s not find out,” before he shook his head and went to get plates for the pie.

Q hid his smile behind his cup of coffee, savouring the flavour and watching James. He hadn’t been completely oblivious to James’ behaviour today, after all. Whenever Q fell, or held the reins wrong, or otherwise did anything that required intervention, James had been there with guiding, almost petting touches.

And it was nice. It was more than nice, in fact; Q found himself wishing he wasn't too damn focused on learning the art of horse riding to be creative enough to invent excuses for James to touch him. The crux of the problem, of course, was that Q wasn’t going to be here long. A week, Alec had said. If anything was going to happen, even if it was just more petting, there wasn’t enough time for a slow burn. Might as well make his interest known.

Avoiding meeting Q’s eyes, James served up two slices of the pie, but instead of handing over Q’s plate, he left both plates on the counter and went to the standing freezer by the refrigerator. “I thought so,” he said with a quiet laugh as he took out a carton of ice cream. “I hope vanilla’s all right.”

“Oh, my god,” Q said, closing his eyes in anticipatory bliss. “Really? That sounds amazing.”

James laughed. “Right, then,” he said, and Q heard him moving around the kitchen, opening drawers. Q opened his eyes to see James had found a spoon, rather than searching for a proper scoop. A moment later, a slice of pie topped with slowly melting ice cream slid in front of Q. “Did you want to take this into the parlour? It’s warmer there.”

“Can we take the coffee?” Q asked hopefully, unable to take his eyes off the pie. He had a sudden urge to take a photo of the crusty apple perfection and share it as an example of how anyone at MI6 might bribe him into going easier on them when it came to paperwork. He swiped a finger through the melting cream and grinned.

“Of course.” James got forks, put one on each plate, and then balanced his own plate on top of his coffee mug so he could carry the carafe. With a nod for Q to get his coffee, James walked out, heading across the house for the front room.

Q followed much more slowly, the aches of the morning’s ride causing him to almost fall out of his chair rather than allowing him his usual clamber. He stretched, winced at the stupidity of such a move, and gingerly picked up his coffee and plate.

“How do I get my own Patricia?” Q asked when he caught up with James in the parlour.

“If you’re not careful, Kincaid will hear of your new obsession, and it’ll be pistols on the front lawn at dawn,” James teased. He set everything down and went right to the fireplace, kneeling down without a hint of soreness from the morning’s ride. As he started laying the fire, he said, “She’s got one unmarried daughter, though. I can introduce you, when we make it to town. Or you can go to church. I’m sorry — I should have asked. I think there’s another service at some point.”

“Absolutely not,” Q said firmly, settling carefully at the end of the couch. “Did I mention it was a Catholic orphanage? I’ve had quite enough piety to last me a lifetime,” he said, smirking. He set his coffee on the coffee table, then took a bite of the pie. It tasted every bit as good as it looked, and he settled happily back on the couch.

James looked back sharply at the mention of the orphanage, though he didn’t say anything until the fire was roaring, adding its heat to the strained radiator clanking away under the window. “I’m sorry. I know what it’s like to lose your parents,” he said steadily as he took a seat on the armchair across from Q, rather than beside him. He picked up his plate, careful not to tip off the melting ice cream, and started to eat.

“I didn’t really lose them — I never had any to begin with,” Q said with a shrug. “Not that I remember anyway. But it sounds like you did?”

“Mountain climbing, when I was eleven,” James answered between bites. “And then my aunt, a few years later.”

“I’m sorry, James,” Q said softly, looking down at his plate. “Though I should have guessed. M certainly does recruit a very specific kind of agent, doesn’t she?”

“Worked that out, did you?” James smiled briefly and leaned forward to pick up his coffee cup. “Alec, too. I don’t know if you’ve read his files. M recruited both of us out of Chicksands.”

“I’ve read Alec’s files,” Q said. “All of my agents’ files. M has a type, but it’s a very effective method of choosing candidates. If her hand-picked people survive fieldwork, they always get promoted to Double O status.” He leaned back and scooped up a bit of pie, but didn’t eat it yet. “Is that what you wanted?”

James didn’t answer right away. He glanced at the fire and said, “On our first assignment, Alec and I met someone. Rescued her, actually.”

Q took a bite of his pie and tried to recall that far back on Alec’s file. Alec’s first assignment hadn’t been memorable; back then, he’d been a field agent, tasked with routine matters that weren’t of particular interest to Q. Alec had been promoted to the Double O programme a few years later, which was the point at which Q had paid attention to his file.

“What happened?” he finally asked quietly, looking not at James but at his plate. To Q, who’d never really had anyone, grief wasn’t a familiar concept. Loneliness, he knew intimately. But true grief that came from the death of a loved one, which apparently James had suffered more than his fair share of, was almost unknown to him. Boothroyd’s death had been as close as Q had ever come to losing someone he cared about, and even just the loss of a friend and mentor had driven him to homicidal rage. He wondered how James had managed to keep it together.

“We saved her from drowning.” James sighed and sipped his coffee. “When she came to London, that first winter, she got pneumonia. She never recovered. The doctors said it was because of what had happened to her before. We’d only been married a few days when she first got sick.”

“I’m sorry,” Q said again. “I can’t imagine...” He shook his head and set his plate down. He wondered if the woman’s death had driven a wedge between James and Alec. They had been so close... Had her choosing James over Alec been the problem? Or something else?

James shook his head slightly and looked at Q steadily. “It was a long time ago. Alec’s done well with MI6, though, by what he tells me. Or is he just bragging?”

“Oh, I’m sure he’s bragging, but he has every right to,” Q said with a smile. “He’s the best. I get frustrated with him sometimes — his penchant for destruction and the occasional disappearing act is legendary — but he has the highest mission success ratio of anyone else in the programme by a very wide margin.”

James’ smile turned proud. “I thought so,” he said fondly. “I can’t count how many times he saved my life, in the field. We both did, for each other.”

Q finished his coffee and reached for the carafe, grimacing at the stretch. He could just picture it, the two of them, younger than they were in the painting, running around for the Navy to save the world. “I bet you were one hell of a force to be reckoned with, the pair of you.”

“And _that’s_ the reason we didn’t end up getting dishonourably discharged. We never got in trouble _at the same time_.” James smirked. “We could always cover for one another.”

“I can’t imagine what you would have been like as a team for MI6,” Q confessed, picking up his plate again to finish the pie. “No witnesses, and no one to report to but M.”

“M threatened to send Alec after me when I told her I was getting married. You can imagine his response to that.”

Q snorted and refilled his coffee. “Why didn’t you come back?” he asked after a moment.

James looked at him silently for long seconds that seemed to crackle with new tension. Then, as he scooped up another bit of pie and melting ice cream, he asked, “Have you heard of the _Unione Corse_?”

“Sure,” Q said with a shrug. “The French mafia.”

“My wife was Contessa Teresa di Vicenzo, born Teresa Draco.” He ate the bite of pie while Q frowned, wondering why the name was familiar. When Q said nothing, James swallowed and said, “Her father is Marc-Ange Draco, head of the _Unione Corse_.”

“Ah,” Q said, suddenly understanding. “That wouldn’t have gone over well, I imagine. Even if you took her away and cut off all contact, the ghost of that connection could be... problematic."

“I never dreamed of coming between her and her father,” James said with a shrug. He scraped his fork on the plate, gathering up the last bits of pie crust. “M demanded I call off the wedding, but Tracy was” — he hesitated — “mine. I walked out of MI6, and never looked back.”

Q watched James from behind his coffee cup for a silent moment, wondering if he could ever make that sort of decision. James didn’t seem to regret it, but it was ten years later. Q decided that James must have been _terrifying_ for at least a short while after his wife had died.

“I’ve never been in love,” he finally said to James. “But I imagine you did the right thing.”

James looked up, surprise flickering across his expression. Then he got a faint smile and said, “Alec’s going to contact him, if I know how Alec works — and I do. Marc-Ange probably knows exactly where Silva is hiding away. And if he doesn’t, he knows someone who does.” His face went stern as he warned, “That _won’t_ be in Alec’s report.”

“I’ve been on the other side of Alec’s comms long enough to know just how to properly sanitise,” Q said with a sigh. He put his plate and mug down on the table and sat back, staring at the fire. It shouldn’t have been necessary, Alec using connections from his past to have to deal with this. Silva was Q’s problem. Alec should have given Q more time and a little bit more trust. None of this — the French mafia, the strange ex-military recluse, the banishment — should have been necessary. Q should have been left to find him, charm him, and draw out the mole.

Instead, here he was, fixing pilot lights and doorbells and riding horses. It was... frustrating. Galling. And more than a little embarrassing.

“M is willing to use contacts like Marc-Ange,” James said as he put down his now-empty plate. “But only on her terms, under her control. That’s not how it works in the field, though. Alec said she’s been behind a desk too long to understand.”

“That’s Alec’s one significant weakness,” Q said with perhaps more venom than was appropriate. “He thinks that you have to be in the field to understand how to play the game. He doesn’t understand that just because some of us manipulate the board differently, we’re just as effective. It’s just a matter of perspective. He’d be a fool to underestimate her.”

“And _that_ is why I’m glad to be out,” James said, looking around the room with a smile that was almost contented. “No more bloody pissing contests over who’s right and who’s ticked off all the boxes on a form while people in the field are dying. I may not be saving the world, but at least my corner of it is in perfect order.”

“It’s not a pissing contest,” Q said quietly as he stretched. “It’s a matter of self-preservation. People like me aren’t trusted unless we’re useful. Field agents can retire, and will be left alone as long as they’re not active mercenaries against England’s interests. But people like me are always assumed to be doing something illegal until proven otherwise.” He shook his head. “I’m one of the best in the world, James. I didn’t get all my tech taken away because I’m not good enough to keep Silva from finding me.”

James’ eyes went sharp. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, hands cupped around his coffee. “You don’t have your tech because of the _temptation_ to get involved. If Alec didn’t trust you completely, he wouldn’t have brought you to me. I don’t know if you understand that when Alec asked me to protect you, he asked me to _die_ for you, if it meant giving you the time to escape.”

Q looked up James, studying him. “You shouldn’t do that,” he said, shaking his head again. “Alec shouldn’t have asked that of you. I’m not...” He looked back down and huffed in frustration. For the first time, it occurred to him that Alec wasn’t just keeping him safe from Silva — he was probably also keeping him safe from M. If there were even the _slightest_ doubt about Q’s loyalties, she’d have him killed. “Fucking spies,” he finally said in frustration.

James smirked. “Suddenly horses don’t seem so bad, do they?” he asked, getting up to pick up both plates. “Speaking of which... Do you want some aspirin?”

“Yes, please,” he said. He reached for the coffee cups. “And clothes for working on the...”

Q stopped mid-sentence as he tried to stand, and he barely managed to keep the coffee cups from crashing to the floor. “Bloody buggering fucking _hell_ ,” he cursed as he straightened. “Is this normal?”

James quickly put the plates down and went to take hold of Q’s arm. “You’ll be sore for the first few days, yes. Do you want to sit by the fire or take a hot bath? You won’t be working on the engine any time soon.”

“What will be better for making this go away faster?” Q demanded, staring around at the furniture. “And what am I supposed to do if I can’t fix something?”

“Hot bath, aspirin, and whiskey to help you relax,” James advised. “I can find you the iPod, if you want.”

“You have an iPod that needs to be fixed?” Q asked, looking over at James. “Where the hell did I put my toolkit?” He took a step towards the door and held back a groan. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say James did this on purpose to make him more manageable and less likely to try to escape.

James put an arm around him, pulling him close. “It’s brand new, still in the box. You wanted it last night, to listen to music. Or do you not even remember that?” he asked, supporting Q as he started walking for the foyer.

“I don’t remember that,” Q confessed, leaning on James unashamedly. It was _his_ bloody fault Q felt like this to begin with. “But if it’s still in the box, there isn’t any music on it, so that doesn’t help. Thanks for the offer, though.”

“And you can use my computer to download new music to it, or tell me what music you like.” James helped Q carefully down the two stairs between the foyer and the hallway. “But you can’t do anything personally identifiable. No checking email or MI6 servers. This is a safe location for a reason.”

Q bit back his instinctive desire to snap at James, telling himself it wasn’t James’ fault — it was Alec’s. “It’s fine,” he said. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll raid your bookshelves for something to read.”

“Help yourself. Slowly,” James said, starting up the stairs. When Q winced at the strain in his thighs, James asked, “Should I carry you?”

“You’re kidding, right?” Q asked, staring at him.

James shrugged and started up the stairs, helping Q along with him. “I wouldn’t have guessed you to be a masochist.”

Q didn’t think James was _that_ unobservant, and he carefully managed not to smirk. “Catholic orphanage. It was practically a requirement,” he reminded James as he held on. “Though there is a difference between enjoying pain for pleasure and feeling like you’ve had the shit kicked out of you for no good reason.”

James’ hand tightened against Q’s side. “I promise, the horse wasn’t trying to kill you,” he said evasively.

“If you say so,” Q muttered, wishing James would press just a little bit harder while looking at him just a little more intently.

Wait, no he didn’t. If Q sank to his knees in this state, he might never be able to get up again.

At the top of the stairs, James turned Q towards the guest bath. “I’ll start the tub for you, and then fetch the aspirin. Do you need anything else?”

“No, thank you,” Q said. “I appreciate the help. I wasn’t expecting this.”

“It happens to everyone. Alec and I both went through it. There’s no need to feel embarrassed,” James assured him. He brought Q into the bathroom and released him to start filling the tub. Once the drain plug was in, he said, “Make it as hot as you can stand. And what do you prefer to drink?”

“Anything but bourbon,” Q said with a shrug. He sat down at the edge of the tub, running his hands through the warm water. He didn’t drink much, and when he did it wasn’t for flavour.

James nodded, resting a hand on Q’s shoulder for a moment. “Don’t move,” he advised before he left.

Q watched him leave, then turned to watch the water as it filled the tub. He kept fiddling with the handles not because he couldn’t get the temperature right, but because there wasn’t anything else to do. What the hell had James been thinking, trapping Q in his own body like this? It was bad enough to not work on the doorbell, but now he couldn’t even work on the engine. Without a distraction, Q was doing to go absolutely insane.

James returned a few minutes later. He offered Q two aspirin and a tumbler of amber whiskey. “Do you need any more help?” he asked, faltering a bit as he looked from Q’s pyjama bottoms to the bathtub.

Q shook his head. “I think I should be all right,” he said, though the thought of stripping and getting into the tub with his body protesting like this was a daunting one. And to think that only a couple of hours ago he’d flirted with James over the idea of walking around in his skivvies.

After a moment’s hesitation, James said, “If you need anything, just yell. I’ll be right down the hall,” he said, and left the room, closing the door firmly.

Q set the tumbler on the floor, and was out of his clothes and in the tub in no time. The heat of the water helped soothe his aches, and he sank in as deep as he could go. He should have asked for a book, he thought as he picked the whiskey back up. Now all that was left to do was think.

Well, he’d been meaning to return to work on running a mental investigation of everything that had happened with Silva anyway. Maybe there was something he’d find now, far removed from the initial stimulus and the easy access to the affected systems. He had an eidetic memory, after all — time to put it to use.

 

~~~

 

James took the risk of a quick shower to deal with the lingering odour of the stables and drive out the last of the chill that had settled into his body. He kept the door cracked in case Q needed him, though he hoped like hell not to hear a shout. With luck, Q would go from the hot bath straight to bed for a nap, and James would be free to find more excuses to stay well away from him.

But after he’d rinsed off the soap, he lingered in the shower, thinking about having Alec here yesterday, and Q still being here, and how Tracy had never even made it to Skyfall. She’d wanted to; James and Alec had told her all about it. While she’d been in hospital in Bern they’d both visited her frequently. James had brought her a photo album, and she’d said Skyfall Lodge would be the place where they could all start over.

First Portugal. Then six weeks in Bern, and only days together in London, before and after the wedding. In less than a season, she’d changed the course of his life — his and Alec’s. And now, Alec had brought him Q.

_Why?_

Was it just because of the mission, or was there something more? Was Alec hoping James’ old stories would spark some feeling in Q? Or was he looking to draw James out of Scotland with the lure of a young new lover — one they could possibly share again?

Damned interfering bastard. Not that James was offended; he wasn’t.  He just would’ve liked a bit of warning about _all_ the dangers of having Q here. Not that the threat of an assassin-turned-terrorist wasn’t significant, but Alec could have mentioned, _‘Oh, and by the way, the Quartermaster’s a submissive and a masochist. Have fun!’_

He got out of the shower and dressed. He’d need to drive Holly over to Kincaid’s house, or she’d end up spending the night at the Lodge. That wasn’t a problem, but a short drive was a good excuse to get away from Q. And he needed to check on the sheep and the ponies, though they really were practically self-sufficient. Excuses.

He found the boxed iPod in his chest of drawers, behind old T-shirts he never wore. Then, remembering Q had mentioned needing old clothes, he dug out an old Royal Navy tracksuit, worn soft from years of washing. He bundled everything up and went out to the guest bath, where he knocked once and called, “Q?”

“Still soaking,” he called back. “Hurts.”

“I found clothes for you, and the iPod. I’ll put it in your room,” James said, refusing to ask if Q needed anything else. He was _not_ going to open the door.

There was a light splash and a groan. “Thanks,” Q said. “I’ll be out in a while.”

“No rush.” James waited a moment, and then went into the guest suite that had once been his room. After meeting Tracy, he’d hired a decorator to remake the master bedroom, the salon, and the guest room. He hadn’t gone near the nursery, thankfully — he’d been uncertain about children, and just the thought of looking at a nursery that might never be used filled him with dread.

The guest room no longer held any childhood memories for him, good or bad. He left the iPod on the desk and put the folded tracksuit on the foot of the bed. He looked down at the rumpled blankets, thinking about the women he usually picked up in the village. Not many made it back to Skyfall Lodge; usually, their houses were closer and more convenient, at least on those nights that their husbands were at the pub. The few who did, though, usually shared his tastes. Those were the ones he remembered and would sometimes look for again. Never too often, and never if there was any hint of indiscretion. Even in this modern age, the community was insular and unforgiving. Eccentricities would be tolerated, but only to a point.

Which made any interest in Q twice as dangerous. Not everyone was as open-minded as Patricia and Kincaid, though at this point, he suspected they’d be fine with him marrying a Martian, if it meant he’d be happy and no longer alone. Now he just had to find one.

Wryly smiling, he left the guest room and gave another tap on the bathroom door. “I’m going downstairs to check on dinner. Do you want lunch, or was the pie enough?”

“The pie was plenty, thank you. But more whiskey wouldn’t be out of order,” came the hopeful reply.

James took a deep breath. “Right,” he answered, wondering if he could just crack the door open and put the bottle on the counter. And then rush in to pick Q up off the floor and stop the bleeding when his strained legs gave out.

Privately vowing to kill Alec — or to at least make his life miserable — James went downstairs. Dinner, then whiskey. With any luck, Q would fall asleep in the bathtub, and James wouldn’t have to deal with temptation.

 

~~~

 

Q had given up. There was nothing for it. He’d gone over everything in his head at least twice, and couldn’t see a damn thing differently. No new knowledge, no hint under the dance of something more. Twenty minutes of soaking away the soreness — unsuccessfully, no less — and Q still had nothing. May as well get drunk, he decided.

It was another ten minutes before James knocked on the door again. “All right to come in?”

Q looked around for something to cover himself with, but came up short. James was former Navy. Since when was someone like him concerned with modesty?

Finally he just rolled on his side and put his chin on the edge of the tub. That would hide the worst of it. “Best as I can manage,” he called back.

James let himself in and closed the door quickly, though not quickly enough to avoid the chill that swept in with him. “You’ll feel better if you can sleep a bit, too,” he said, resolutely not looking at Q. He picked up the glass from the soap dish and moved it to the counter to fill it.

“I’m presently useless and too sore to do anything about it,” Q grumbled. “I’m going to get drunk. Don’t worry, I’ll keep myself locked away so I don’t bother you.”

“You’re no bother.” James returned the glass and hesitated for a heartbeat too long, looking at Q. “Do you need anything else?”

Q was suddenly very, very tempted to ask James to stay. Not just because he was naked and feeling like shit, and sex was always a quick pick-me-up, though those things were true. He also was feeling like shit mentally. _Useless_ , he repeated to himself bitterly. But maybe there was an alternative. Though James hadn’t been blatant about it, he had been responding beautifully to Q’s subtle innuendo. Q needed to be useful and needed; perhaps he could lose himself in James’ needs. Would James be willing?

With a sip of his new drink, Q ran the odds. Being laughed at, being gently turned down, and being not-so-gently turned down were the most likely options. Alec would be very displeased if he managed to get himself kicked out thanks to unwelcome sexual advances. Or perhaps impressed.

Finally, he shook his head, not trusting himself to speak. One glass of whiskey wasn’t much, but since he never drank, it was enough to threaten his brain-to-mouth filter.

“I know this is difficult, Q. Don’t make it harder on yourself,” James said quietly.

Q looked down at his drink before looking back up at James. Finally, feeling a sense of false courage from the drink, he reached out to brush his damp hand over James’. As far as gestures went, it was a relatively minor one, but it made James go still.

“Q...” James glanced down at the droplets of water on his hand, and then looked back at Q, meeting his eyes.

It was breathtaking, being caught in that ice blue gaze, but Q didn’t know how to offer without breaking the moment. Then he finally dared to move, reaching to pull James’ hand towards his face. Without breaking eye contact, he pressed James’ hand to his cheekbone, bowing his head to rub his face against work-roughened knuckles.

Slowly, James brushed his fingers against Q’s skin. He didn’t say anything; he didn’t look away. Then he moved his hand back to Q’s damp hair, touching the strands lightly.

Q’s breath caught; the novelty of having hair long enough to be played with had never worn off. He finally closed his eyes and pushed his head into James’ hand — not hard enough to be demanding, but just enough to show how much he wanted that touch.

He heard James exhale as he combed his fingers through Q’s hair. “Is there anything...” He twisted the strands around one finger and tugged Q’s head back. “Is there anything between you and Alec?”

The question surprised Q, though he realised almost instantly that it shouldn’t have. “No,” he said firmly. “Not now, not in the past.”

Another tug, this one a bit harder. “Did he tell you anything about me? About us?”

This time, Q knew his surprise was visible on his face. James had been subtly flirting with him since he’d arrived, and Q had begun to think that the kiss between James and Alec had been nothing more than a strangely intimate greeting between old friends. If he’d had any reason to suspect there was an ‘us’ for James and Alec, Q would have avoided this like the plague.

“No,” he said, trying to pull away.

As soon as Q moved, James let go, though he took his time, running his hand over Q’s hair before he stepped back. “I didn’t think so, but I wanted to be certain,” he admitted. “I don’t like potential misunderstandings. I gave that up when I left the military. Tell me what you want.”

Q catalogued the new distance between them warily, afraid that he was moments away from ruining everything. His scalp tingled from where James had tugged at his hair, and he wanted that back, right the fuck now.

“To forget everything but you,” he finally said, meeting James’ eyes again.

Slowly, James stepped forward and crouched down beside the tub. He lifted his hand to touch Q’s face, watching as he traced the line of Q’s cheek. “Close your eyes.”

Q complied immediately, somewhat relieved to have a reason to hide from the intensity of James’ sharp thoughtfulness. He breathed deeply and let the world narrow to where James’ hand was on his face. He trailed his finger down to Q’s jaw, brushing slowly over stubble Q hadn’t bothered to shave that morning. James seemed content to move slowly, all the way to Q’s chin, before he dropped down under Q’s jaw and pressed. When Q lifted his head slightly, James brought his finger back up to touch Q’s lower lip. The light touch started out gentle at the centre of his lip, but as James dragged his finger to the side, it seemed to light sparks under Q’s skin, sparks he could feel after James continued over the corner of Q’s mouth and up to touch his eyelashes.

This wasn’t a familiar part of the game, this gentle exploration. Usually, when mutual attraction had been confirmed, the other, more dominant person just _took_. “James...”

“Quiet.” James’ finger stopped moving, and Q could feel him watching. After a very long ten or fifteen seconds, counted in the suddenly rapid beats of Q’s heart, James’ finger moved again, continuing across Q’s eyelashes. “I’ve been called a controlling bastard more times than I can count. I am.”

 _Fuck yes_ , Q thought, though he didn’t dare move or speak. He kept his eyes closed and his body still, doing his best to prove that this was what he wanted. _Needed_.

James brushed his finger up and across, paralleling Q’s eyebrow, brushing his fringe aside. Then he came back down, smoothing over his eyebrow with the grain of the hair, his touch soft enough to leave Q’s skin tingling. “I’m demanding. I don’t tolerate insolence or lies. If I do something you like, I want to know it. I want to see it in you. If it’s something you don’t like, you tell me immediately. If you don’t know, or you’re willing to try, you tell me immediately. Do you understand?”

Q swallowed, the implications sending a flood of arousal through his system. It wouldn’t be much different from the way they’d been interacting this whole time; Q had done everything James had asked so far, including getting on a goddamn horse. At least now he would get something rewarding out of it.

“Yes, sir,” he whispered.

He heard James stop breathing, only to start again with a deep, steadying inhale. “Good.” He let his finger slip down to Q’s cheek again. The entire left side of Q’s face was tingling now from his touch; the right felt cold, almost absent from Q’s awareness.

With another breath, James moved his finger back to Q’s ear, shifting strands of long hair aside. As he traced the outside, soft enough to spread the tingling sensation down Q’s neck and over his shoulder, James asked, “Have you submitted to anyone before?”

“Yes, sir,” Q answered. God help him if James ever asked for specifics; his tendency towards possessiveness and protectiveness meant that particular conversation wouldn’t go well at all. He held still for James’ explorations but didn’t elaborate.

“What are your limits?” James asked, circling his finger down to Q’s earlobe. He moved back up, over the centre of his ear, barely brushing the surface.

“No urine or excrement,” Q said, focusing entirely on the sensation of James’ finger on his ear. It was _exquisite_.

The touch hesitated, before James moved again, over the inside curve of Q’s ear. “What else?”

“That’s it,” Q said. He didn’t particularly relish the idea of scars or broken bones, but he wouldn’t object if James were good enough. Well... he decided, perhaps one amendment. “No hospitalisation,” he added apologetically.

James let out a breath, and he moved his hand down, to wrap his fingers around Q’s nape. “Safeword?”

“St Vincent,” Q said. Bucket of ice water, that phrase was. It hadn’t changed since he’d first started having kinky sex.

“St Vincent. All right.” James rubbed his fingers hard against Q’s nape. “You’re still sore from the ride. I don’t want you pushing yourself because you think it’ll please me. It won’t work, and you’ll end up with cramped muscles and be in even worse pain tomorrow. Can you stand?”

Q stretched his legs experimentally, careful not to dislodge James’ hand from his neck. “Yes,” he said cautiously, checking for cramps in his legs.

James continued to rub his nape, almost massaging, for a few seconds. “Stand up, hands behind your neck. I want to see you,” he said, dragging his hand through Q’s hair again before he backed away and stood. “Eyes open. I don’t want you to fall.”

Heart pounding, Q opened his eyes, seeking the paradoxically comforting and intense sharpness of James’ gaze. Then he braced himself on the tub and stood slowly, though his muscles screamed in protest. He didn’t falter or cry out, but soon was standing with his hands behind his neck.

James stared at him, interest written in his dilated pupils and the rhythm of his breathing. Q had never been shy, and he’d always taken care of his body, even after leaving the army. He refused to let life at a computer turn him soft, and the effort paid off at times like this. His aching muscles adjusted to holding up his weight again.

“Turn around, slowly. Face the wall,” James said, once his gaze reached the waterline high up on Q’s calves.

Q turned without lowering his hands. He heard the rustle of fabric, and he couldn’t stop from twitching in reaction to a soft touch in the centre of his tattoo. “Gorgeous work,” James said, tracing down the hilt of the sword on Q’s left shoulderblade. “What do you like?”

 _Everything_ , Q was tempted to say, but he was afraid James would see that as an evasion or partial-truth. “I like being tied up. I like hands, belts, crops, whatever you like to use. I like it when you play with my hair. I like kissing and being touched.”

James moved his hand up to circle Q’s left wrist. “Hands down,” he said, using his grasp of Q’s wrist to turn him back around. “Step out of the tub. I’ll help you. You can touch me,” he added, moving his hand from Q’s wrist to his forearm to brace him.

Q stepped over the edge of the deep tub, unable to completely hide the small whimper of pain as he changed positions. He reached up to grip James’ upper arms as he moved, thinking this was _not_ the right type of pain. There was no feeling of being cherished and brought out of the mundane, no sense of give-and-take, nothing but the knowledge that Thor was no gentle, kindly faire-ride but a monster that wanted Q to suffer.

James didn’t let go of him. He held Q steady, helping him find his balance. As the pain of strained, sore muscles ebbed, Q was able to concentrate on the feel of James’ arms under his hands, solid and sure. Q let out a breath, telling himself to relax, ignoring the chill damp of the bathroom in favour of thinking about what might happen next.

James kept one hand on Q’s arm; with the other, he pulled a towel from the shelf and wrapped it around Q’s shoulders. He rubbed at Q’s back only for a few seconds before he looked up at Q’s fringe and moved his hand to Q’s hair, pushing it out of his eyes. “How well can you see without your glasses?” he asked, somewhat reluctantly moving his hand back down to Q’s shoulder to rub over the towel.

“Nothing past a metre but blurry colours,” Q replied. “Nothing distinct past a few inches.”

With a thoughtful hum, James guided Q’s hands up to hold the towel. He pulled another one from the shelf and wrapped it around Q’s waist, and then crouched down to start gently, carefully drying his legs. He took his time, never touching Q’s skin directly except to press his inner thigh and get him to spread his legs so he could work the towel up around his balls.

“I don’t play games,” he said quietly, moving to Q’s other leg. “If you act up so I’ll punish you, I’m as likely to throw you out of my room and go back to my book. If you want something, no matter what, ask respectfully and be honest, and I’ll consider it. Honesty, Q. Much as it goes against everything MI6 has probably taught you,” he added with a soft laugh.

It had been such a long time for him that someone gave him something like this, Q realised. Even the gentle touches to his extremely sore body, with the towel as proxy, were enough to start to push him into that quiet space where he didn’t have to think about decisions or boredom or the next thing on his to-do list. Even Silva, who had been occupying his thoughts for far too long now, started to vanish.

“Yes, sir,” he finally said when his brain caught up to what James was saying. He didn’t have to worry about that — Q didn’t like games either.

James stood and pulled both towels off Q’s body. He picked up Q’s pyjama bottoms and said, “I want you dressed and warm until I can get the fire built up in my room. Put these on, and your shirt.”’

Q complied, though his sore muscles forced him to move slowly and rely on James’ steady presence to keep him from falling over. He cast a longing look at the whiskey, but knew better than to ask if he could finish it.

When he was done he straightened to meet James’ eyes again. James moved his hands to Q’s shoulders, and then kept going with his right hand, until it was curled around his nape once more. He held Q still, fingers pressed in against either side of his spine, and leaned in for a kiss. It was slow but demanding; as soon as Q’s lips parted, James licked inside, using his hand to keep Q from moving.

When he backed up, he met Q’s eyes from just inches away. “How good are you with your mouth?”

Arousal spiked through Q again, and he couldn’t help but smirk at being able to answer honestly, to James’ benefit. “Exceptionally good,” he said confidently.

James grinned appreciatively. “Perfect,” he said, and put an arm around Q’s body again, turning to lead him out of the bathroom.


	7. Chapter 7

**Sunday, 18 November 2012**

They’d known each other for only a day and a half, and already, Bond wanted more. Wanted _everything_. That crossed perilously into territory that had once belonged solely to Tracy, except Alec wasn’t here. James watched Q walk down the hall to the master bedroom, bare feet leaving little wet spots on the old wood floor. He wanted to push, to see just how much Q could take, because this wasn’t _new_ for him. James didn’t have to start with slow, tentative little steps. Almost no limits, no self-consciousness when he’d stood in the bath exposed to James’ regard, no hesitation at all.

What the _fuck_ had Alec sent him? Did Alec know? He had to. The parallels were too obvious. Rescue from the threat of death. Isolation. He half expected Alec to walk in the front door and announce that he’d wrapped up this Silva business, because that was the sort of timing they’d once had with each other.

Alec _had_ to know about this beautifully submissive side of Q. He probably even expected that James would act on the temptation. Neither of them could resist pretty things all neatly gift-wrapped.

Like Tracy.

Fiery and headstrong, defying her father, evading his security teams. She’d stared right into James’ eyes, into Alec’s eyes, and _chosen_ to gift them with her submission. And now, Q had done the same for him.

“In the bed, under the covers,” James said, conscious that this gift, at least, was probably freezing in this weather. He didn’t turn to watch; he went right to the fireplace and started stacking wood extravagantly. He’d send Kincaid to buy more sometime next week.

As for Q... Nothing exotic, he decided a bit reluctantly. Between the horseback ride and the cold, he’d be too vulnerable to physical stress. He wanted to break Q’s self-control, not his body. Besides, his lack of limits was both troubling and too enticing. If this wasn’t all some elaborate scheme of Alec’s, then James would have Q here for weeks. Time enough to expose everything in his head, to tease out all of his hidden desires and fears.

Q didn’t say anything as he moved to do as James commanded, and for a minute, the rustling of the covers and the sounds of Q’s rapid, slightly heavier breathing were all that James could hear from him.

When James turned back, he saw Q wrapped up in the blankets. He was looking in James’ direction, but his eyes were unfocused. It was a shame he didn’t have contacts, James thought, before it occurred to him that if he couldn’t have Q with clear vision, there were alternatives.

Once, he’d had a full kit of toys and plans to turn his old bedroom into a dungeon. Patricia and Kincaid were too proper and loyal to comment, and before Tracy, he’d never planned to marry and even think about children. After everything that had happened, he’d thrown out everything they’d used together, except for the riding crop that she’d loved. That, he never touched. He supposed Patricia dusted it, since there were no cobwebs, but he could barely bring himself to look at it some days.

He went to the chest of drawers and opened the second drawer from the bottom. With a stable full of horses, no one looked twice at him buying whips. Leather straps, collars, and leads were all easily explained by the hunting dogs. Other things, picked up on his infrequent trips to the city, were kept hidden in circumspect boxes that he doubted Patricia ever opened.

Blindfold. Condoms. Much as he wanted to bury himself inside Q’s body, their morning ride was fresh in his mind, and he left the lubricant in the drawer. Heavy clamps that would bite harder if he pulled on the chain between them. He considered the box of blades, sharp and dull, blunt and pointed, but decided to wait on those as well. If all hell broke loose, he needed Q able to run. Bad enough he’d be a week getting used to a saddle.

He gathered his selections and brought them to the bed. He sat down and set everything on the pillow beside Q, keeping only the blindfold in his hands. He didn’t put it on, yet. Instead, he looked into Q’s eyes, watching him.

Q squinted, then tipped his head forward a few inches to focus on the objects on the pillow. He didn’t seem surprised by anything, though his eyes focused on the clamps and the corner of his mouth twitched. Then he turned his head again to look up expectantly at James.

“Clothes off,” James said, noting the lack of apprehension. “Stay under the blankets.”

Q rolled flat onto his back and reached under the covers. He wriggled as he shuffled under the covers, then pulled his bottoms and pants free in one motion. He took a moment to fold them before reaching over to drop them on his side of the bed. Then he pulled his shirt free and did the same. As soon as he was done, he settled back on the bed, facing the ceiling, and laced his hands behind his neck.

James moved closer, bracing a hand on the mattress so he could touch Q’s face again, learning the contour of his bones. A brush over Q’s eyelashes made him close his eyes. He never got out in the sunlight, James guessed; his eyelids were thin and pale, a contrast to long, dark eyelashes.

There was no reason to rush. Dinner could warm in the oven for hours without scorching, and Patricia and Kincaid wouldn’t come by until tomorrow morning. Even the dog, who was probably sleeping on the rug in the study, had a little doggie door in the kitchen so she could let herself out.

He leaned in, following the path of his fingers with his lips, feeling Q’s warmth and the softness of his skin. The press of one finger turned his head, exposing his jaw. James bit right at the point, under his ear, and touched the tip of his tongue to the stubble. Q’s breath stuttered, and his body tensed, as if Q wanted to move but was holding himself still. James moved up to Q’s ear, holding Q’s head turned aside so he could bite again, first at the lobe, then at the cartilage, and Q’s breath left him in a low hum of approval.

The underside of Q’s arm was even softer, and James indulged with a harder bite. When he drew back, he saw the imprint of his teeth clearly etched into Q’s skin. It would take no effort at all to leave marks that would stay for hours. Q’s breathing had gone even deeper, and he opened his eyes to look at the marks on his arm. Then, after a moment, he turned back to look at James, eyes dark and skin flushed with arousal. “Thank you, sir,” he said quietly.

The words fragmented another layer of James’ self-control, even more than Q’s easy, graceful compliance had. Whatever Q had done in the past, either he’d been taught by someone who gave a damn — someone who _wanted_ his submission — or he had instincts that hadn’t been ruined by selfish, abusive partners. James hoped it was the former.

He leaned in again and kissed Q, thinking about how enthusiastic Q had seemed about showing off what he could do with his mouth. For one moment, he had the image of sitting at the dining table with Q kneeling beside him, taking food from his hand, licking his fingers clean.

He’d find a way. Even if he had to make Q a damned nest of soft pillows so he was comfortable, he needed to experience it, even once.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss long enough to get the blindfold in place. With his gorgeous eyes hidden by thick black cloth, elastic straps buried in his hair, Q looked wild and untamed. His lips were dark in contrast to his skin, parted so he could take light, rapid breaths. James wanted to tie him down just so he wouldn’t bolt if startled, and he was reminded of Exeter, who still fought the reins, settling only when James took control once more.

Q’s hands twitched under his neck, and he started to move his arms before he stilled. “May I still touch you, sir?” he asked, body strained towards James, tense but unmoving.

James hadn’t told him to keep his hands behind his neck. He moved a hand to Q’s throat, resting his fingers gently over the pulse. “Yes,” he said, when he was certain his voice was steady.

Slowly, Q unlaced his fingers from behind his neck and reached out. He didn’t move quickly or eagerly, but with a consciously deliberate grace that meant that when his hands finally came in contact with James’ chest, he wasn’t flailing or rough. He settled his palms flat, then slid them upwards, over James’ chest, shoulders, and neck. One hand rested over James’ pulse, then the other moved up into James’ hair, caressing without holding. Q breathed out softly and started to explore James’ face carefully.

James closed his eyes, allowing Q to learn him. His fingers were as intriguing as his mouth, sparking new ideas of how it would feel to have Q touch like this, blindfolded, building a picture of James in his imagination.

Finally, he caught Q’s hand and brought it to his mouth. He licked at Q’s fingertips, holding tight around his wrist before remembering Q had mentioned carpal tunnel. “Tell me if this hurts,” he reminded Q, tightening his hold for just a moment. “I don’t want to damage you.”

“If I may, sir,” Q said, bringing his free hand to wrap around where James’ was gripping his wrist. He pushed James’ fingers into a different but no less tight grip, then squeezed to indicate that James could increase his pressure. “That won’t damage me.”

“Perfect,” James murmured, lifting Q’s hand a bit higher, so he could brush his mouth over the sensitive underside of his wrist. He had metal cuffs, but he wouldn’t use them on Q; only the softer leather ones, and possibly rope, as Q had mentioned.

He put Q’s hand back down, with a little press to indicate that he should stay in position. Then he got off the bed and stripped, making noise so Q would know he was still there. The momentary break helped him find his distance; he didn’t want this over too soon.

When he returned to the bed, he got under the covers. The room was still warming, though he hardly felt the cold anymore. He arranged the blankets, pulling them up to their shoulders, and then twisted his fingers into Q’s hair and gave a hard, sudden tug.

Q gasped quietly, fighting the tug for a moment before he gave in, exposing his throat. He swallowed, holding still for James until he seemed to realise he was being pulled closer. He followed the direction James was moving him, holding himself back enough to keep hard tension in his hair. He reached out again, this time settling his hand on James’ upper arm.

“Touch me,” James said roughly, rolling onto his back without letting go of Q’s hair. He pulled more strands out from under the blindfold strap so he could take a better hold. When he finally indulged in Q’s mouth, he decided a bit fuzzily, he’d need his hands in Q’s hair.

“Thank you, sir,” Q said breathlessly. He slid in closer so his front was pressed to James’ side, and he braced himself with one arm while he reached for James with the other. He started at James’ chest again, laying his hand flat over the sternum before moving it down. He curled his fingers just enough to scratch at James’ skin as he moved, dragging his hand downward hard enough to leave light welts behind. He didn’t tease, though when he found James’ hip, Q indulged in feeling the curve of his arse and the V of his abs before finally reaching for his cock.

James closed his eyes, tugging Q’s hair to pull him up, onto his chest. He guided Q’s mouth to his chest and petted his hair once, breath stuttering at the feel of Q’s fingers on his cock. Distantly, he thought he should put the clamps to use, but he didn’t want to stop long enough to fix them in place, and he didn’t know if they’d make Q’s movements hesitant.

“Keep going. Don’t stop.”

Q lifted his head from James’ chest long enough to say, “Yes, sir,” before returning to his attentions. The motion of his hand was firm and steady and responsive, experimenting with placement and pressure. When James twitched or groaned, Q would repeat the movement; when James pulled away or failed to react, Q tried something different.

His mouth on James’ skin was just as experimental and methodical. He didn’t just start licking and sucking, but varied pressure, placement, and the use of teeth, saliva, and breath to elicit the most favourable responses he could draw out. He didn’t even go for the most obvious sensitive spots first, but took his time, distributing his attentions evenly over James’ chest. When he finally did get to James’ nipple, he didn’t do anything different — but the sensation was magnified beautifully.

“Fucking hell,” James whispered, hand going tight again as he arched up against Q’s mouth. “You’re fucking brilliant, Q.” Any plans he had of securing Q to the bed broke under the knowledge that Q could be such an attentive lover. “Tomorrow, we’re doing this with your hands tied behind your back. You’ll be just as perfect like that, won’t you?”

“I’ll try, sir,” Q said, exhaling hotly on James’ skin and shivering slightly. He shifted and slid down the bed slightly, though his hand on James’ cock never faltered. He continued exploring every inch of James’ chest, moving down fractionally every few minutes until he was completely under the quilt, tongue in James’ belly button.

It was almost too much. James refused to let this end so quickly. He pulled up on Q’s hair and twisted, catching Q’s wrist. Q’s back hit the bed, and James pinned his wrist to the pillow, blankets trapping their legs as he rolled on top of Q.

Q froze for a moment, breath hissing out as he tensed. He fought against James’ weight and the pressure on his wrist before he caught himself. He took a deep breath and relaxed as he exhaled. “Sorry, sir,” he said, the faintest edge of tightness in his voice.

“Sorry for being _too_ good?” James challenged, ducking to bite at Q’s throat. Q groaned and relaxed even further under the pressure of James’ teeth, and he took another deep breath. He shifted under James, bringing their bodies in better alignment, but stopped moving as soon as their hips were pressed together.

Then he reached up with his free hand and adjusted James’ grip on his wrist again. James lifted his head to look up at their hands, and then he let go. “Hands behind your neck,” he said, thinking he’d need to talk to Q afterwards about his wrists. For now, he’d be much more careful.

As Q slid his hands under his neck, lifting his head so he could lace his fingers, James reached for the clamps. Q exhaled sharply at the sound, and his body twitched under James, hips pushing up ever so slightly before Q schooled himself into stillness again.

James pushed the blanket down; the room was warm, and Q didn’t shiver. The firelight brought colour to his skin, and James thought making another nest of pillows in front of one of the hearths was a bloody perfect idea. Maybe in the great hall, with its immense hearth and a balcony with strong railings and sufficient room for James to properly wield a whip.

He moved down Q’s body and closed his teeth around one nipple, without warning. Q gasped, body arching into the bite, before he forced himself into stillness again. “Thank you, sir,” he breathed out, body trembling under James’.

James tugged and licked, making Q’s breath hitch. He let go and then bit again, slower this time, and didn’t let up on the pressure until Q made a soft, broken noise. Then he went for the other nipple and pulling at the trapped flesh until Q squirmed, though he never moved his hands.

When he let go, he moved the first clamp in place. Before he closed the jaws on Q’s nipple, he turned the clamp so it was above the nipple, not below, resting on Q’s skin. He positioned the jaws to trap as much of Q’s flesh as possible, before he let it go tight. Q bucked into James’ hands as the clamp snapped shut. His hands tightened underneath his neck, and James watched his forearms tense before relaxing again.

Without pulling on the chain, he moved the other clamp over, watching the way that Q took sharp, shallow breaths. With anyone else, James might have asked if it was too much, but not this time. Something about Q incited James to want to push. He fixed the second clamp in place as he had done the first, and he gently let the chain rest against Q’s throat.

Q’s chest heaved for a few moments as he took long, purposeful breaths. His body vibrated with tension before he relaxed, so quickly that it almost looked as if a switch had been pulled. He sank fractionally back into the mattress and exhaled long and low. “Thank you, sir,” he said, the chain moving slightly as he spoke.

James caught himself staring at Q’s mouth, fascinated by the way his tongue darted out to touch his teeth or lower lip every few breaths. Slowly, he moved down Q’s body a bit more, trapping Q’s legs between his own. Then he lifted one hand, catching the chain on his finger. He moved slowly, putting no tension on the clamps yet, as he drew the chain up over Q’s chin. It was a bit long, but the clamps came up off Q’s chest, applying a subtle twist to the jaws.

When Q gasped, James eased the chain between his lips. “You can still speak, if you’d like,” he said, knowing what that would do to the clamps. He pressed Q’s lower lip with one finger before he slid the tip inside, touching the chain and Q’s tongue. “Don’t let go.”

Q was silent for a few moments, then he opened and closed his mouth experimentally. The tension pulled the clamps hard, and Q tipped his head back unconsciously, causing an even harder tug. He groaned this time, and his hips jerked again.

“Is there anything in particular you’d like to hear, sir?” he gasped out, a shiver ripping through him at the tension.

James laughed softly; god, he loved masochists. “Let’s see if I can inspire some ideas,” he said, silently reaching for the condoms as he crawled farther down Q’s body, keeping Q’s legs closed with his own. He couldn’t tear the condom open silently, so instead he slid a hand down, around Q’s balls, and used his free hand and his teeth to open the sachet while Q gasped at the touch and groaned at the sharp bite of the clamps.

“Next time,” James said thoughtfully, lowering his head to trap soft skin between his lips. He licked, feeling the shift of Q’s balls against his hand, and then tugged at the skin with his teeth. Q’s entire body shuddered, but he didn’t pull away. When Q pushed harder into James’ teeth, he let go long enough to say, “Next time, I’ll use more clamps.”

“Oh, god,” Q said, voice cracking with pain and arousal. “Please, sir, yes.”

James had to stop and close his eyes, letting the images pass through his imagination. He’d give Patricia and Kincaid a week’s vacation and have Q in every room of the house. He’d bind Q to balconies and chairs and the immense dining room table. He might damned well not give Q back when Alec came to collect him, after the threat had passed.

He bit again, pulling carefully, trying to find the edge between too much and not enough. Q groaned again, very carefully pushing into it, and James moved lower, pushing his tongue between Q’s balls. His next bite was firmer, and he lifted so he could tease one finger behind Q’s balls and between his legs. He pressed with his finger as he released the bite and licked again.

A choked cry escaped Q when James pulled away, and he shuddered. His breath escaped him in frantic huffs, and after a moment, they melted into more measured, if still deep, breaths. “Please, sir, don’t stop,” he pleaded, breath catching all over again when he spoke.

James looked up at Q. His arms were strained with tension, whipcord-thin muscles standing out under his skin. The chain across his mouth was tight, pulling his nipples up away from his chest. The skin had gone white around the clamps. He was beautiful in his surrender, and James forgot about his plans to keep this simple.

He moved, forcing one leg and then the other between Q’s. The strain on his sore inner thighs made him groan again, but James knew that Q was flying from the endorphins. He moved his finger down lower, over Q’s entrance, and pushed a little, not enough to actually enter his body.

“Oh, god, yes,” Q pleaded, lifting his head slightly despite the blindfold. “Please, sir.” He pulled his legs even further apart for James, fighting his own body’s stiffness. His breath hitched with a barely-suppressed sob, but Q pushed through it until he simply couldn’t move his legs any further.

Good intentions be damned, James thought. He got the condom onto Q’s cock as he pushed his finger inside, dry and unprepared as Q was. Then he closed his mouth over Q’s cock and pressed with his tongue, licking to wet the condom so he could slide freely down.

Q cried out wordlessly, and though his body tensed he didn’t push up into James’ mouth. James heard the rattle of the chain as it slipped, and Q’s head jerked forward so he could catch it before it could actually fall free from his mouth. He froze entirely for a moment, trembling, until he managed a broken, “Sorry, sir.”

James laughed as he took Q’s cock deeper. He didn’t move his finger out, but he pressed and flexed carefully, teasing over the sensitive nerves at his entrance. Q’s body was hot and tight, making James wonder just how often he’d been fucked. Not often at all, he suspected, and he pushed his finger in just a little more, past the first knuckle, as he took Q’s cock all the way to his throat, so his lips just brushed the hair.

“Please, sir,” Q choked out, body tripwire tight under James. His thighs shook with the effort of being held open, and the muscles of his stomach were tight and hard. “I’m so close. May I, please?”

Satisfaction, lust, and avarice hit James. He wanted Q to be _his_. He looked up Q’s body and backed off, steadying Q’s cock with his free hand. And though he wanted to say something clever — praise that Q had asked permission, a teasing warning not to get used to James going easy — all that came out was, “Yes,” before he licked his way down Q’s cock again, this time pressing his teeth against the length as best he could, and he resolved to find out Q’s medical status so he could do this properly, with nothing between his teeth and Q’s flesh.

“Thank you, sir,” Q said roughly, and James could hear the chain against Q’s teeth as he pulled it. Q groaned, shuddered, and did it again. “Thank you... sir...” he started to repeat, though he soon lost his words to cries of pure pleasure. Only moments later his body stiffened under James, and Q went completely silent as he was overwhelmed by orgasm, cock pulsing under James’ tongue. Q held his breath until he was forced to inhale brokenly, body clenching tight around James’ finger inside him.

Breathing hard, James pulled away, removed the condom, and dropped it over the side of the bed, not caring about the mess. He was more gentle in easing his finger out of Q’s body, though he’d relaxed beautifully. Careful, aware that he was on the edge of just turning Q over and fucking him, James moved up beside Q and put a hand on one of the clamps. He eased the pressure of the jaws and closed his eyes when Q cried out at the sensation of blood rushing back.

“Good, Q,” he said, trying to keep his tone soft and steady. As he removed the other clamp, he pressed hard against Q’s hip, biting back a groan. He had to tug the chain to get Q to release it; a negligent toss sent it to land on the floor with a rattle.

“Thank you,” Q whispered again, turning to practically melt against James. He nuzzled into James’ neck, pressing grateful kisses along the jaw. He pushed, not hard enough to tip James onto his back, but certainly suggestive of it. “May I, sir?”

James bit back a sigh of relief, grateful that Q wasn’t the type to break out of his headspace the instant he came. He rolled onto his back, found the other condom, and then pressed it into Q’s hand. Not trusting himself to actually answer, he got his fingers into Q’s hair and pushed instead.

Not that he had to push hard; Q had started to move down the moment James’ hand threaded into his hair. He slid carefully down the bed to kneel between James’ legs. He leaned down and licked a long line up the side of James’ cock, and he brushed his fingers over James’ hips. “Do you like to be touched, sir?” he asked.

It took effort for James to push aside the feel of Q’s mouth on his cock. _He_ was perfectly healthy, but now wasn’t the time for that discussion. “Yes,” he finally said. He looked down at Q’s mouth, the blindfold, his own hands in Q’s hair and said, “Don’t hold back.”

Q nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said quietly before ducking back down. Instead of putting his hands over James’ hips, however, he curled them under James’ arse, fingernails digging into soft flesh. James inhaled sharply and shifted, bending his legs so he could raise his hips, encouraging Q to explore. Q licked again, pulling James up so he could run his tongue down from the tip of his cock down to his perineum. He nipped lightly, then reversed the movement. He took his time, exploring on his way up, and finished the motion by dipping his tongue in the slit.

“Fucking hell, Q,” James grated out. He wanted to clench his fists and drive up into Q’s mouth. He wanted to hear Q’s breath stutter, to feel his throat and hands and tongue. But he wanted to know what more Q could do for him. His submission — his creativity and willingness to do more than mindlessly obey — was worth far more than a quick fuck could ever be.

“Thank you, sir,” Q repeated, whispering so close to the head of James’ cock that he could feel Q’s mouth form the words. He licked again over the head of James’ cock, then in a slow circle around the frenulum before he curled his tongue to wrap a little around the shaft. He moved his head down, sliding up and down in a swift movement, before he unfurled. Then he licked again from tip to base.

James’ hips bucked involuntarily, and he tugged on Q’s hair, though he couldn’t say if it was to stop him or make him keep going. He knew he should remind Q of the condom or reassure Q that he was healthy, but he could only bring himself to say, “Q. Fuck, Q.”

Q moved his mouth back up, this time just barely letting his teeth scrape along the shaft, before ducking back down to take James’ cock into his mouth. He pushed down slowly, coughing a little before he swallowed around James. Then, when he couldn’t bend any further, he gripped James’ arse and pushed him up.

“Fucking hell,” James said, thrusting up hard, fists clenching to hold Q’s head in place. He dragged in a breath and guiltily made himself say, “The condom, Q.” He should have said something earlier — he shouldn’t have let Q start this at all without it.

Q hummed, sending delicious vibration through James, and swallowed again before he very slowly pulled off. He fumbled with the condom packet as he caught his breath, then turned his face up towards James. “Do I need it?”

Selfishly, James wanted to say no, but Q’s questioning made it easy. He twisted his fingers hard in Q’s hair, until he heard Q’s breath break on a little cry. “Do I need to repeat myself?” he demanded.

“Sorry, sir,” Q said in a pleading voice, frozen under James’ hand. “No, sir.”

James relaxed his hands, though not entirely — not until he heard Q rip open the condom packet. Then he petted Q’s hair as Q rolled the condom into place. “Good,” he said quietly, twisting the strands of hair around his fingers once more.

Q exhaled and nuzzled into the crease of James’ hip, kissing apologetically. “Thank you,” he said quietly before going back to James’ cock. Instead of immediately swallowing him down again, however, he repeated the same licks as before, exploring and teasing James into intense arousal. He didn’t shy from any part of James’ body, letting his tongue roam freely. He even lifted James’ arse to duck down far enough to lick from over his entrance to the tip of his cock in one long, hot line.

“Fuck, yes,” James grated, his whole body tingling. He shifted his hips, bracing his feet flat on the bed, and tugged Q’s head down. “Don’t stop touching,” he warned as he thrust up a bit.

Q caught him and held him. He squeezed his hands and rubbed his thumbs in circles that might have been gentle if he weren’t dragging his nails across James’ skin. He moved back on his knees a few inches, then leaned back in to tease at James’ arsehole, tongue circling and pressing, keeping the touch almost maddeningly light.

So much for fucking taking this slow. James gave up trying to predict what Q might do next and just allowed him to explore and tease and discover everything that made him go tense and gasp. Q was fucking incredible, holding nothing back.

Finally, Q licked up, pressed a finger gently into James’ body, and closed his mouth around James’ cock. This time he gripped James’ arse tight and pushed up hard, encouraging James to thrust deep into his mouth. He pulled back and did it again, groaning in pleasure.

“Next time, I want you on your knees,” James said, hardly aware that he was speaking aloud at all. If Q had an answer, James never heard it; he started thrusting, holding Q’s hair, hips bucking against his finger.

The pleasure didn’t so much build as consume like fire, feeding on itself until James didn’t want to hold back at all. He came with a shout, pulling Q’s head down as far as he could. Q didn’t fight or gag or try to pull away even when James slowly, reluctantly, eased the strands from around his fingers.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so sated. Distantly, he was aware of Q pulling off the condom. He might have tried to get out of bed to properly dispose of it, but James caught him by the hair again. He took the condom away, tossed it on the floor, and dragged Q up beside him. Another pull and the blindfold was gone, leaving Q blinking dazedly in the light before he allowed James to draw him into a deep, lazy kiss.

Q returned it without hesitation, reaching for James’ hand as soon as he’d dropped the blindfold. He lifted it and pressed it to his cheekbone again just as the kiss was ending. “Thank you,” he said softly.

“You are fucking amazing,” James said sincerely, looking up into Q’s eyes as he cupped his cheek, fingers brushing over his skin. “Thank you.”

With a lazy smile, Q leaned down to brush his mouth over James’. “I’m sorry, but I’m very sore. I think I need to sleep.” He looked over at the door, smile fading into an uncertain frown. “I’ll need your help in getting into my bed again, I’m afraid.”

The possessive monster that lurked not too far under the surface of James’ mind reared its head and growled. “Or you could stay here, where it’s warm. Rest until dinner’s ready,” he countered, pulling the blanket up to Q’s shoulders. “You can have more aspirin in a couple of hours, too.”

Q looked down at James, surprise naked on his face. “I can stay?” Then he snapped his mouth shut and smiled apologetically. “Sorry,” he said, settling down next to James. “Thank you.”

He bit back the urge to ask who the fuck needed to die for throwing Q out as soon as the sex was done. Instead, he turned Q around and curled up against his back. “Are you cold? Do you want the lights off?”

Q shook his head and wrapped his arms around James’. “I’m fine. Please stay.”

James smiled and pressed a kiss to Q’s nape. “You’re not capable of throwing me out,” he teased. “Though perhaps we’ll try that in a few days, when you’re back in top form. Could be fun.”

“Eight years as the skinniest and prettiest of the bunch, and a Catholic orphanage before that,” Q reminded James with a yawn. “I bet I can hold my own — even against you.”

“You’re welcome to try, any time.” He kissed Q again — he couldn’t get enough of feeling Q’s skin under his lips — and held him tight. He’d have to find a way to thank Alec for this — or to share, if Q was willing.


	8. Chapter 8

**Sunday, 18 November 2012**

Q woke coiled around a warm body. His legs and arse ached, but the rest of him felt lazily content. He heard the rustle of paper and looked up to see James sitting up against a mountain of pillows, chest bare. He had a paperback in one hand, cover dog-eared and torn in places; the other hand rested on Q’s hair.

For a moment there was nothing but panic — the same panic he’d been forced to live with for years of being both gay and not-vanilla, first in a religious group home and then in the military. Waking up in another man’s bed usually meant that you were either too injured or too far gone the night before to make it back to your own bed, followed by the inevitable furtive scrambling to ensure that you didn’t get caught. Five years of freedom and few sexual encounters weren’t near enough to erase years of lessons learned.

But after a few moments of watching James’ nonchalance, rationality finally won out. He was fine. He was safe. No one cared what he and James had been up to this afternoon, and if they did, Q couldn’t care less. He was a high-level exec at MI6; he didn’t need anyone’s approval.

Well, except for James’. Q stole a look up at James’ face, trying to read him. Other than the hint that he and Alec might have been involved and that he’d been married, Q had no idea what the man’s experience was. This could have been a fluke, for all Q knew. He didn’t know what he’d do if James had second thoughts, or worse, was angry at Q for seducing him. Not only did he have nowhere to go if James kicked him out; he would also have offended the oldest and possibly closest friend of the very man who was trying save Q’s life.

Not to mention, of course, that this had been the best encounter in Q’s recent history. The best in _years_ , in fact. He couldn’t imagine having to let go of the delicious possibilities just when they seemed so promising.

Finally, Q decided that the fact that James was still sitting here with one hand in Q’s hair, casually reading a book rather than glaring down murderously at him, was a good sign. He sighed and curled tighter against James’ warm body, head pillowed on James’ thigh, and he closed his eyes against his own natural inclination to get away and find safety. James _was_ safety.

“Feel better?” James asked, still petting Q, though he set the paperback aside. “Do you want that aspirin now?”

“Not if it means you have to move,” Q said, tightening his arms across James’ lap. James was all hard muscle and perfect contours under Q, and he wanted to spend hours exploring — first with his fingertips, then with his mouth. If James would let him.

James hummed in amusement and tugged Q’s hair — not to move him, but simply for the pleasure of feeling the strands, it seemed, since he kept Q’s head in place on his thigh. “If I don’t, you might not be able to, once what you took earlier wears off. You slept about an hour and a half. You can sleep more, if you need. I just need to get up later to feed Holly — and you.”

The last of Q’s doubts about how James might feel about what they’d done melted away. He closed his eyes, focusing on James’ hand in his hair. “If I say I’m not tired, does that mean we’ll have to get out of bed?”

“Careful,” James warned, moving his other hand to rub over Q’s arm. “As it is, I’m considering not giving you back to Alec.”

For one mad, self-indulgent moment, Q thought about what it might be like. Staying with James, learning about horses and fire and manipulating metal, and practising sniper rifles just for the hell of it. Then he’d have an endless supply of affection, real food, and small things to work on to keep the Lodge’s electric in good working order.

“I’d need a laptop and internet again,” Q said with a chuckle, pushing his head into James’ hand. “I’m not sure you’d consider it worth the trade of upgrading Skyfall.”

“I can convince the council to authorise a fibre line, if you want,” James let out a little huff. “I haven’t bothered with more than rubbish satellite out in the stable because I didn’t need it. And that’s only to talk with other horse breeders and order more books.” He waved at the bookshelves by the recliner in the corner. “Would you like a Ferrari to make the occasional commute to civilisation more fun?”

Q looked up at James in surprise, completely caught off guard by how serious he sounded. “You’d want me?” he couldn’t help but blurt out. It was a ridiculous thought, after all. They’d known each other for two days. They’d had sex _once_.

James went still for a moment. Then he glanced away and said, “I’m sorry. You... You’re very enticing. I don’t mean to —” He sighed. “I can be very possessive, when I want something. Or someone.”

Q cursed his reflexive need to seek assurance. Of course James hadn’t actually been talking about the long term — though the fact that he seemed to want Q here and now was almost as good. It wasn’t as if Q had actually, seriously considered leaving MI6, even after the mess with Silva. And he’d certainly never considered leaving London. Scotland had its charms, but what was a farm to a hacker?

 _A place to study and tinker and run your own software companies_ , a treacherous voice whispered inside Q.

Anxious to show James that he understood, that there were no hurt feelings about the misunderstanding, he shuffled up to his knees. The chill made him shiver, and he tugged the quilt up with him, wrapping both of them in it as he leaned in for a kiss.

James' arms circled him tightly, holding him, and he responded to the kiss enthusiastically. Then one hand slid up Q’s back, under the quilt, to tangle in his hair, and he muttered, “God, I’m fucking addicted to your hair. If you ever cut it, you won’t be able to sit for a month.”

Q was once again left unbalanced by the wording. Possessive, yes, but also hinting at the long-term. He closed his eyes and rested his forehead on James’ shoulder, covering his uncertainty with a chuckle. “You say that like I’d mind.”

This time, he felt the way James went tense for just a moment. Then, with a tug, he pulled Q’s head up for another kiss, this one more demanding. When he released Q, it was to stare at him with an intense expression that went beyond sexual arousal. “Have you considered it? Being... someone’s?” he asked quietly, free arm locked around Q’s body to keep him close.

 _Fuck_ , Q thought, immediately knowing that James wasn’t talking about a haircut. He was asking about the sort of relationship where Q really _wouldn’t_ mind being punished for an unauthorised haircut. About Q staying at Skyfall.

He wanted to defer with a joke, such as a crack about staying for Patricia or how Skyfall really needed a resident tech. But it would be cruel to reward the intensity in James’ gaze and body language with dismissiveness.

“I will,” Q promised, not knowing what else to say. “But there are things I need to think about.”

James let out a breath, easing his grasp to let Q rest his head on his shoulder again. “I’m sorry. I know it’s so soon, but... there’s something about you. I don’t even know your bloody name, but I know this much. I want you to be mine.”

Q lifted himself off his knees to sit in James’ lap, though he had to settle crosswise to keep from aggravating the intense soreness in his arse and thighs. He wrapped his arms around James’ back and let his temple rest on his chest.

He couldn’t say that he was James’ yet, because there really was a lot to consider. But that didn’t change the fact that he _wanted_ to be — that James’ declaration had left him wanting nothing more than to stay here, in James’ arms, for as long as he’d have him.

“Cedric Hughes,” he said quietly. “Even Alec doesn’t know.”

“Cedric.” James laughed quietly, settling Q comfortably in his arms. He pulled the blanket up, dragging the far end out from between the mattress and the footboard, so he could wrap Q up in its warmth. “You look more like a ‘Q’, even if that makes no sense.” He nuzzled at Q’s neck, and Q could feel his amused grin. “I won’t tell.”

“‘Cedric’ isn’t any more real than ‘Q’,” he said with a shrug. “Our names were chosen by mixing up movie stars’ names.”

“Q, then.” James tightened his arms and, somewhat cautiously, asked, “What do you think of Alec? Other than as a field agent?”

Q tipped his head up, but he couldn’t see James’ expression. With a mental sigh, Q decided to just give up on trying to follow the threads of the conversation and just answer honestly, as James had asked him to. “I like Alec. He’s a good man.”

James took a deep breath. “Do you think you can walk a bit?”

“I think so,” Q said, stretching a bit just to test the validity of that statement. He slid off James’ lap and shuffled to the edge of the bed to find his clothes.

Much more gracefully, James got out of bed and went to one of the wardrobes. He opened it and took out a thick, heavy dressing gown of what looked like quilted silk, the type of thing featured in old movies but never actually seen in the real world. If nothing else, no one would wear that much purple, red, and antique gold all in one garment. He came back, unconcerned about his nudity or the cold, and wrapped Q in the heavy material that was softer than air and warmer than fleece.

“It wasn’t my idea,” James said with a grin as he overlapped the robe and tied the belt around Q’s waist.

Q looked at James with amused disbelief. “I’m not sure you can blame this on one of the daughters. It looks older than any of them are.”

“Father-in-law.” James sorted out his blue jeans and stepped into them, not bothering with pants. “He sends gifts for every occasion. Patricia has a set of cobalt Syrian glass stemware, and feeds her cats using sterling silver platters.” He zipped up the fly and didn’t bother to button the waistband. “Christmas is a delivery man's nightmare here.” He held out his hand to Q.

Distracted by the image of cats eating from sterling silver and farmers drinking from Syrian glass stemware, it took Q a moment to reach out and take James’ hand. He wondered what the father-in-law, head of the French mafia, would think about James having someone like Q take his daughter’s place. He wondered if that would be bad or if the man would even notice. But he decided such questions were better asked _after_ decisions had been made.

James led Q through the side door, into the abandoned sitting room that overlooked the great hall. He turned on the light; outside, the windows showed the dark late afternoon sky, thick with heavy clouds and rain. The room was chilly, and Q huddled into the thick robe.

“Tracy, Alec, and me,” James said, stopping near the centre of the room to look at the painting. “He was the best man at our wedding, but that was only for her father’s sake. She was ours. Both of ours.”

Q stared at the painting, his earlier faint suspicions snapping into confirmed reality. All three of them, together. He shivered hard, suddenly imagining himself kneeling at James’ _and_ Alec’s feet.

“Alec isn’t interested in me,” he protested, looking over at James. And it was true; Alec was a pathological flirt, but he’d never even touched Q in a remotely unprofessional way. Of course, Q realised, it might not be Q or Tracy who was the important part of the relationship — though that didn’t explain why he hadn’t come back to James.

“Alec brought you here. He’s gone to ground to find out who’s behind this threat.” James touched Q’s chin, turning him so their eyes met. “You’re an MI6 executive, Q — and you’re male. Think of what would happen to his career if he expressed interest and you decided to take offence or drag him before a review board.”

It was almost too much, the idea that Alec could want him, that James _did_ want him, and that Q could probably have them both if he wanted. And then there was Skyfall, Silva, and MI6, and now the ghost of Tracy. Q looked into James’ eyes, searching for any hint of uncertainty or evidence of a trap, but didn’t see anything but calm confidence, as if he knew how to make this work, with the three of them.

Of course, apparently he did — or he once had.

“I wouldn’t expect you to give up anything,” James continued. “Whatever you want — anything at all — we could find a way to make it work. If you wanted. And you don’t have to say yes. Just either say no or tell me you’ll consider it.”

With one last glance at the painting, Q swallowed and nodded. “I’ll consider it,” he said. “But if Alec isn’t interested... would you still want... would you still consider —” Q started, his brain once again running ahead of his mouth. He didn’t know how to ask if James could want just Q. As much as James might know Alec, Q really did have a hard time seeing how there could possibly be interest there, given Alec’s total professionalism. And, of course, there was the fact that Alec had absolutely no idea what Q’s sexual proclivities were; he had no idea that Q was a submissive.

James nodded, taking another deep breath. He moved his hand up to Q’s face, fingers brushing over his cheek. “He couldn’t resist you. But yes. Even if he wasn’t interested, _I_ want you.” He slid his hand back to Q’s nape, fingers catching at his hair. “But if you were ours, then he could look after you in London, when I was up here. You’d have both of us to take care of you.”

It was with an incredible force of will that Q shoved away his instinctive reaction — to say that he didn’t need to be taken care of. Because that, of course, wasn’t true at all. He didn’t need help defending himself or protecting himself or being safe in the insane world; he’d grown into independence and strength through the necessity of circumstance. But what he truly wanted was someone to take care of not his body, but his heart. To cherish him — something that was far too unfamiliar to him, but he craved nonetheless. And here, under James’ hand in his hair and confident assurances, he felt like he might actually get it.

Q started to shake with cold and the pain of standing in one position for so long while he was still so sore. He tugged at James’ hand, trying to get him to sit.

“Fuck. Back in bed with you,” James said, turning and getting an arm around Q’s waist. “Aspirin, maybe something light to eat, to balance all that bloody coffee you had earlier. Are you hungry?”

“No,” Q said, directing James not to the bed, but to the recliner in the far corner of the bedroom. It was obviously a favourite spot of James’ with bookshelves on either side and plenty of natural light from the nearby windows. “Sit, please.”

James hesitated, grinning slightly. “Much as I love the idea of having you at my feet, you at least need a few pillows,” he said, running his hand very gently over Q’s arse.

Q gave James a gentle push toward the chair and turned to the bed. “All right,” he said, grabbing a couple of pillows. He walked back slowly, waiting for James to sit. Laughing, he did, twisting to watch Q return to the chair. Q dropped the pillows on the throw rug by the recliner and knelt down stiffly.

James caught his arm, helping him balance. “Careful,” he warned. “You’re taking another hot bath later.”

“I think better like this,” Q admitted, settling comfortably against James’ legs. He let his head fall on James’ thigh, and he reached up to guide James’ hand to his hair. Then he closed his eyes and tried to relax.

“And there go my plans for a dinner surprise,” James said, combing his fingers through Q’s hair. “You’re perfect like this.” Then, with a quiet laugh, he added, “I suppose all you need is a laptop? Maybe a collar, since it wouldn’t interfere with typing.”

“God,” Q said with a contented sigh. “You’d never get me to move. You’d be trapped here in this recliner for hours and hours while I tried to save the world or build a new software company.”

“If that’s what you want, then yes,” James said without hesitation. He moved his hand to touch Q’s face, brushing across his eyelashes before he returned to Q’s hair. “Whatever makes you happy.”

“You think I could still work at MI6,” Q stated rather than asked. “Could you explain how that might work?”

“You go to work. You go home to Alec’s. He’ll be there in London, or I will, or both of us. Or you can come here and work remotely — tell them it’s for your own safety, after this mess.”

Q didn’t nod only because he didn’t want to disrupt the rhythm of James’ hand in his hair. Like most people, he craved a life where he could have his lover (lovers?) at home with him every night, but it didn’t seem feasible. Even if Alec were a part of the relationship, he was gone on mission most of the time. And James couldn’t leave Skyfall for very long, not with all of his horses and dogs and sheep. But it could still work. Lonely weeks could be made up for by long weekends here.

Then again, Q hadn’t really wanted the promotion to Quartermaster to begin with. He was happy to step in and try to fix things in the wake of Silva’s damage, but as far as long-term commitments went, it wasn’t ideal. Q was only thirty years old. Boothroyd had been in his seventies when he’d finally been killed. Q couldn’t imagine another forty years of the daily stress he faced right now.

“And if I stayed here? Could I convert one of these big rooms into a lab and office? Run a business here. Software or consulting. Or both.”

“Or I could build you an office, or you could get space in the village.” James sighed and said, “I’m rich, Q. I’m not just saying that. You can have anything you bloody well want. I just want this. What I think we have, between us.”

“I don’t care about money or _things_ ,” Q said, rolling his head down to expose his nape. “I just need to be useful. _This_ ,” he said, waving vaguely between them, “is brilliant. I want it, too. But I can’t be useless.”

James laughed, teasing his fingertips over Q’s nape before dipping down into the collar of the dressing gown, following his spine. “Any interest in genetics? I got bored, so I started breeding my horses, only I don’t know a damned thing about what I’m doing.”

“I _am_ a genius,” Q said, feeling himself sink into the sensation of James’ hands on him. “I don’t know if Alec mentioned that. But I actually am. I’m sure I could figure it out.”

“And there’s no reason I can’t spend time in London, if you wanted to stay. At the very least, I could be there when Alec’s away — and when he’s there, if you decided you wanted him, too. Kincaid can watch the property for me.”

“For me,” Q repeated, still disbelieving. He was a genius with machines and code, but on a personal level, he was absolutely nothing special. A spectacular failure, in fact, given that his longest relationship was three months. But James was offering something precious — a willingness to change his lifestyle in order to have Q. It was overwhelming. “I could stay here forever,” he confessed. “Right here, with you touching me and telling me I’m someone interesting.”

“I don’t know you. I _want_ to know you,” James said, giving a tug on Q’s hair to meet his eyes again. “You’re a walking contradiction. You’re smart and stubborn, and you’re incredibly strong-willed, but you submit beautifully. I want to know _everything_. I want to see what you can do with computers and how accurate you can be with my sniper rifle and how you react under my whip. I want to watch the women in the village throw themselves at you when I know they can’t have you, and I want to watch Alec take you apart until you can’t do anything but beg for more.”

Q shivered under James’ gaze and words. He nodded, and waited for James to release him so he could close his eyes and let the possibilities wash over him. “Yes,” he finally said through the haziness. “Yes, sir.”

James let go and went back to petting Q’s hair. Gentle pressure guided Q to rest his head against James’ leg. “What I _don’t_ want is for you to lose yourself,” he continued more softly. “I want you to be more than just mine — more than _ours_. I don’t want you to give up your dreams for me.”

“The idea of Silva scares me,” Q finally said after a quiet moment. It was better than saying he had no dreams left... at least, so Q thought. It also was a burden he’d been wanting to share for days now, but didn’t have anyone left outside of MI6 to talk to.

“Alec won’t let him live to come after you,” James said confidently. “We’ll both protect you.”

Q’s sigh was both somewhat exasperated and deeply self-loathing. “That’s not what I meant,” he said. “Pain and death don’t scare me. I’d be in the wrong job if they did.” He paused. “It’s the _idea_ of him,” he explained again, wondering if James would catch on.

James went silent for a few seconds. Then he gave Q’s hair another pull, and when their eyes met, he said, “Alec didn’t tell me much about him. He was too busy giving a threat report and emphasising that I needed to protect you, at all costs.”

“He was a Double O. One of M’s hand-picked. Her favourite, for years. A hacker, too,” Q explained, not looking away. “He was loyal to her, beyond all reason. Then he did something she didn’t like, even though it was for her. She betrayed him. Traded him to the Chinese for six other agents. Left him to rot.” He closed his eyes, remembering Silva’s distorted face. “He tried to die, from the cyanide tooth, but it didn’t work.”

James muttered a soft curse and his hand went tight. “Do you have one?” he asked tensely.

Q nodded. “When I found out what happened to Silva, I had it replaced. It’s not cyanide anymore. It’s an explosive.”

“Fuck,” James said, staring at Q warily. “Is it — Do you _need_ it?”

Q closed his eyes, swallowing against the sudden fear and darkness that mingled behind his eyes. “She said he was operating beyond his brief. But we _all_ do that. It’s part of the job.” He opened his eyes again, staring at James, not sure if his expression was pleading or angry or even just reflexively blank. “What will I do when the same thing happens to me?”

James pulled, moving his grasp from Q’s hair to his shoulders, lifting Q up off his knees and into his lap. “I will kill _anyone_ who hurts you,” he said, his voice low and quiet. “Anyone who even threatens you.”

“Even if, as a result of being betrayed like that, I become like him?” Q whispered, daring for the first time to say it aloud.

“You won’t.” James took hold of his chin and held him gently for a kiss. “If anyone betrays you, I’ll kill them for you.”

Q sighed and let himself melt against James, wishing that what James was offering could be true. That maybe he, and possibly Alec, were enough to keep Q from being at M’s mercy — or lack thereof. “I don’t know how much longer I can do it. Standing there, making life and death decisions, serving my country, waiting to be stabbed in the back.”

“You’re mine, Q. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. You don’t even have to go back. I told M to sod off once. I’ll happily do it again.”

 _For someone you don’t know_ , Q thought. But he didn’t say it. He leaned into James. Now that he’d owned the fear, he could push it aside. “Thank you, James,” he said quietly.

James sighed and kissed Q’s forehead. “If you’d feel safe with that tooth out... Only if you want. But I — Fuck,” he said with a sigh. His arms tightened around Q’s body. “I hate that you feel like you need it.”

“I’ll always need it. Even if I didn’t work for MI6 anymore. I’m one of the best in the world. I’ve worked for the military and military intelligence. It’s not unreasonable to be prepared.” Q chuckled, hiding his face in James’ chest. “I probably really am more trouble than I’m worth.”

“You don’t need it if you disappear,” James said thoughtfully. Then he kissed Q again and said, more calmly, “You need time to think about all of this. You don’t know a damned thing about me. You can’t make any decisions like this. And I still need to feed you dinner, since we skipped lunch.”

Q nodded. “All right.” He slid off James’ lap, and straightened with a hiss. “And aspirin.”

“Do you want to eat in the bathtub?” he offered. He got up and pulled Q into his arms again. “No stairs that way.”

“That would be lovely,” Q said, though he didn’t have any appetite whatsoever right now. “Would you like me to draw the bath while you bring dinner up?”

“Use my bathroom. It’s bigger,” James said, pointing to the other door in the corner. “More whiskey? Or would you prefer coffee?”

Q looked over at him. “Do you have rules about alcohol?”

James smiled as if pleased to have been asked. “I want you to take care of yourself, so no drinking to excess. I want you sober for your consent and if we do anything heavy. Otherwise, no.”

“Whiskey, then,” Q said with a laugh. “Coffee makes me tense. I think my body would start a riot if I had too much coffee while I’m this sore.” He turned towards the bathroom.

James caught Q’s sleeve and stepped up behind him, putting an arm around his waist. He ducked his head and kissed at Q’s throat, saying, “A few more days and you’ll be used to the saddle. Then I can have you properly. Any objection?”

The worry, the fear, the self-loathing over the idea that Q might someday be like Silva vanished under James’ lips and teeth on his neck.

“Not a single one,” he said, grinning.


	9. Chapter 9

**Friday, 23 November 2012**

James watched as Q dismounted with grace. He took down the duck hanging from the saddle and put it and his shotgun on the work table nearby, though not before he clipped Thor’s halter to a lead line. He came back, giving Thor a calming pat on the neck before he flipped up the saddle flap and unbuckled the girth. Then he pulled the saddle off and carried it to the rack at the front of the stable.

Only half-paying attention to settling in Exeter, James kept an eye on Q when he went for Thor’s bridle. Q was still wary around Thor’s mouth, though she’d never snapped at him. But he eased the bridle over her ears and out of her mouth without issue, and didn’t even end up with a tangled mess of leather straps.

“If you want to bring the ducks to Patricia, I can comb Thor and turn her out,” James offered as he took the duck from his saddle and offered it to Q.

Q took the duck from James, searching out his gaze and meeting it with a smile. “All right. Thank you. I’ll see you inside.”

James smiled and watched Q walk out of the stable and into the rain. He moved easily, without any hint of stiffness or pain. It had taken a week for Q to be ready for James’ usual long ride around the property. A week of working with the horses and repairing faulty wiring and rebuilding the farm truck’s engine. A week in which Q had proven himself stubborn and determined to meet every challenge James put to him.

Not that he wasn’t still tense and occasionally restless. James did what he could to keep him distracted, but even learning rudimentary blacksmithing could only hold his interest for so long. His passions were computers and advanced engineering, not making nails and coat hooks.

They’d gone down to the village two nights ago. James introduced Q as an old friend from the military, under a false name, laying the groundwork for anonymity, should Q choose to disappear. He hadn’t given James an answer, and James hadn’t pressed. Not yet.

James hadn’t lied when he told Q he was rich. Tracy’s father was old fashioned — incredibly outdated, actually — and he’d given James a fortune in gold bars as a dowry. When James had gone to Tracy in outrage that her father would think he wanted her only for the money, she’d laughed and told him to take it. They would use it to build a life for all three of them.

After she’d died, James had tried to get Alec to take the gold. He’d refused, and so the gold sat in a safe at Skyfall, until James reluctantly tapped into it to seed a few small investments. He’d lived off those investments and hadn’t touched the rest of the gold. If Q wanted to disappear, James had the money to make it happen, and he’d never have to go near Marc-Ange’s criminal contacts for help.

He finished with the horses quickly. Instead of going to the house, though, he went out back, to the workshop. He’d finished the pot rack, with Q’s help, and had started work on a few other Christmas gifts. But when Q was busy elsewhere, he’d worked on another project.

When James had decided to breed horses, he’d had to learn leatherworking. Tack broke all the time as leather stretched and wore out, and while he couldn’t build an entire saddle, he could replace straps and craft simple accessories, like bags that hooked to the D-rings on the saddles. He’d even modified one to better hold the coffee thermos Q took out on most of their rides.

For this project, he’d chosen a soft, supple bridle leather dyed a rich dark brown, rather than black, with brass hardware. The stitching was a shade lighter, done painfully on an ancient, heavy-duty sewing machine strong enough to punch through the layers without binding or breaking. James had estimated the length of the strap after he’d put his hands around Q’s neck just to enjoy the way it made his breath catch. He’d punched three holes, rather than waiting to measure precisely; he wanted Q to wear it immediately.

He had just a few more inches of edging to finish. He rubbed the edge with beeswax and then began burnishing the leather, inch by inch, to a smooth, rounded surface that wouldn’t irritate Q’s soft skin. He didn’t hurry, though he knew there was a risk Q would get curious and come looking for him.

After a week, he knew there was no way he could be satisfied with anything less than having Q for his own — or his and Alec’s, if Q would accept that. At one time, James would’ve put England’s needs ahead of his own and Q’s, but M had turned that loyalty to ash ten years ago. Now, with Q in fear for his own life, James would cheerfully finish the work Silva had started, if it meant Q could be free.

Or, not free, he thought as he held up the finished collar. _His_.

 

~~~

 

Q left the ducks with Patricia and wandered back upstairs. Though he’d done his best to learn everything James had asked him to learn — from hunting and shooting on horseback to how to care for the horse when they were done — he still didn’t have any interest in dealing with the game itself. Patricia was magnificent in that, as she was with anything else James threw at her, so Q didn’t feel even the slightest bit guilty about not offering to help with plucking and preparing the birds.

In fact, he was planning to take advantage of the fact that, for the first time since he started riding with James, he wasn’t sore in the slightest. In a week it had become habit for them to first bathe (when Q needed to relax his muscles), then shower together every morning when they returned from their ride, and Q planned to celebrate this milestone by making this morning’s shower more interesting. He tucked a condom and lubricant in the soap dish, then stripped and knelt on the bathroom floor, waiting.

He knew exactly how long it took for James to tend the horses. He waited patiently, mind drifting idly and pleasantly from one stray thought to another without letting any of them hold his attention. But then, when he put his glasses on so he could glance at the clock on the chest of drawers in the bedroom, he saw that James was almost fifteen minutes late.

Maybe he’d stopped to talk to Patricia. Probably. She loved company. Q knew more about her life, her daughters, and her grandchildren than he did about the people whose dossiers he’d read. And for an older lady who worked as a maid in rural Scotland, she had an almost embarrassingly romantic side when it came to James, who she regarded as fondly as her own children. She’d rather bluntly told Q that she was delighted he and James were happy together, and circumspectly offered to bribe him with all the sweets he wanted if he’d keep James happy.

It was nearly twenty minutes past time before James came into the bedroom. Q straightened up and put his glasses on the counter, waiting patiently as he listened to James moving around. He went to the chest of drawers first, rather than the wicker laundry basket in the corner, and Q’s heart skipped. By now, he knew every toy in the second-to-last drawer, even if they hadn’t used most of them. Yet.

But when James came into the bathroom, gorgeously naked, he wasn’t holding anything. For a moment, Q felt a faint stab of disappointment, followed quickly by curiosity, until James twisted one hand into his hair and said, “You’re exquisite like that. I’m sorry to keep you waiting, love.”

“Six days,” Q said, smiling up at James, face and neck flushing at the praise and the use of an endearment. “For the first time, I’m not sore.”

James smiled, slow and hungry. “Really,” he said softly. He tugged Q to kneel upright, and leaned down, saying, “Then I’m glad I sent Patricia home early.”

Q closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, unashamed of the fact that his cock twitched plainly for James to see. “Brilliant idea, sir,” he said with quiet appreciation as he opened his eyes to meet James’ gaze.

“I need to ask one more time if you want to do this — if you want to be mine. I won’t ask again,” James said, releasing his grasp on Q’s hair to comb his fingers through the strands. “If you say yes, it starts now. I want you. More than anything, I want you.”

Q stared up at James, surprised. This was not a topic he’d been prepared to discuss this morning. James hadn’t pushed him for an answer since he’d first brought it up the second day Q was here, though that, of course, hadn’t stopped Q from thinking about it endlessly.

Of course, the fact was that Q had made up his mind that moment, even if he hadn’t admitted it to himself. He knew that he wanted James. He knew he’d do anything for James, and the perfect days following that decision had only cemented that fact in his mind. What Q had really been left to think about was the _how_. Skyfall or MI6 or some combination of both?

But now, kneeling in front of James, knees aching from being pressed to the tile for so long, those details didn’t matter in the slightest. All that mattered was the commitment.

“I’m yours,” Q finally said, meeting James’ gaze steadily. “I haven’t made a decision about MI6, but that doesn’t matter. I’m yours.”

James’ smile lit up his eyes. He leaned down to pull Q into a kiss, hands tight in Q’s hair, holding him in place. When he finally let go, Q was nearly dizzy. James stood up and let Q sit back down on his heels.

“Thank you,” James said quietly. “Have you decided about Alec, or do you want to wait? You can take all the time you need. You’re mine, but I won’t give you to anyone else — not unless it’s what you want.”

“Yes, James. If Alec wants me, too, I trust your judgment in knowing that it will work,” Q said, though this wasn’t a decision he’d made until just now. In the abstract, a relationship with the three of them seemed both incredible and tricky. But there was no way Q could predict how it might work in reality. He had to put his faith in James to know that it was right.

If anything, James’ smile turned brighter. “Thank you.” He moved one hand to Q’s chin and lifted again, this time, drawing Q to his feet. “Shower. I started a fire in the great hall for you.”

Q hurried into the tub and started the shower, intensely curious. They’d never ventured into the great hall for any reason, except that night they’d looked at the portrait in the room above. Q found it cold and impersonal, and he preferred to curl up at James' feet in the bedroom or the parlour. This was new. And new was good.

James followed him in and pulled the shower curtain into place. The standing bathtub was immense; the shower, on a long hose, was an afterthought, plumbed in sometime in the last few years. Once the water was hot, James told Q, “Hands behind your neck,” and reached for the soap dish. Then, when he spotted the condom and lubricant, he laughed. He picked up the soap and asked, “Was there something you wanted?”

“Merely being prepared for any way you might want to celebrate,” Q said reasonably, lacing his fingers behind his neck.

James hummed thoughtfully and lathered up his hands. He deliberately started at Q’s throat, wrapping his fingers around before he pressed. Q didn’t fight it, though he held still until he was able to entirely suppress the urge to pull away. Once it passed, he pushed into the pressure and hummed, enjoying the feel of the vibration against James' hands.

“Don’t stop anticipating what you think I might want,” he said thoughtfully, moving his fingertips up to Q’s pulse points before he slid back down, pushing his crossed thumbs low on Q’s throat, under his Adam’s apple.

Q’s swallow was completely involuntary, and the resulting pressure was incredible. “Yes, James,” he whispered, closing his eyes. He wanted James to tighten his grip, to steal Q’s breath, to make Q completely and totally reliant on James for even necessary oxygen.

James slid his hands apart enough to circle his fingers behind Q’s nape, never releasing the pressure of his thumbs. He held Q trapped, and leaned in to whisper in his ear, “Do you want me to fuck you like this, Q? Turn you around, push you against the wall, and fuck you here in the shower, one hand around your throat, the other on your cock?”

Q’s instinctive response was to beg for exactly that, but the mention of the fire in the great hall was distracting, and Q was curious.

“I love this,” Q said, pushing into James’ hands. “But I want to take whatever you want to give me, sir.”

“God, you’re fucking perfect,” James whispered, using his thumbs to tip Q’s head back. He nipped at Q’s mouth before kissing him again, smoothing his hands down over Q’s shoulders. “I want to take our time. We have all night, and I can finally have all of you. And this...” He slid his hands back up to cup Q’s face gently. “This doesn’t change your safeword. If you need me to stop, I want to know. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Q responded quietly, though he privately doubted James would ever push him further than he could go. He hadn’t safeworded yet, but he hadn’t committed to this yet, either. He felt a thrill run through him as he realised that James had probably been holding back this entire time; he suddenly, desperately wanted to know what James was capable of when he wasn’t.

 

~~~

 

The shower was a test of James’ self-control, one he hadn’t expected. For a week, he and Q had experimented with hands and mouths, with only the gentlest bondage and slightest pain. James needed to learn everything about Q, but more importantly, he needed Q ready for a fight, if Alec failed. He was confident now that Q could get on any of the horses and ride for the forest, where he’d hopefully lose any pursuers, even if he had to go bareback. More importantly, though, Q was confident.

Finding Q on his knees hadn’t been a surprise. He knelt naturally, beautifully, and seemed to look for excuses to be alone with James, just to kneel at his feet even outside sexual scenes. James had even taken the thick throw pillows out of the sitting room he’d decorated for Tracy, and scattered the pillows throughout the house. Thankfully, Patricia never asked why there were new pillows in the parlour and study, and he always remembered to put away the one he brought to the dining hall.

Somehow, he managed to wash Q, taking his time to touch every inch of his body. He did put the lubricant to use, teasing one finger inside Q, testing how sensitive he was. Q had pushed against him with a pleased sigh but hadn’t asked for anything else, content to let James do as he wanted, free of demand.

Then, once Q was cleaned and rinsed off, he allowed Q to help him wash. When Q’s hands slid down his back and over his arse, he went so far as to spread his legs and said, “Go ahead. You know I love your hands.”

Q froze for a moment, breath catching, before leaning in to kiss James between his shoulder blades. He let his hands wander freely, touching and scratching and exploring, but only for a few minutes before he changed his mind about his approach. He knelt again, slowly, and braced his hands on James’ hips. Then he leaned in and licked as he dug his nails into James’ skin.

James’ breath caught. He rested a forearm on the wall to pillow his head and spread his legs as much as the tub would allow. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had done this for him. Alec, probably.

“Keep going,” he ordered, distantly surprised at how rough his voice was. He reached down with his free hand, taking hold of Q’s wrist carefully, avoiding the pressure points that would cause his carpal tunnel to flare up.

Q didn’t verbally answer, probably because it would have required him to take his tongue from James’ skin. He teased James’ entrance into slowly relaxing, using a combination of gentle pressure and the occasional hard thrust. There wasn’t enough room in the shower for Q to go very deep, but after a few minutes, he slid his free hand from James’ hip. He pressed his thumb to the edge and pulled, opening James up just a little more, and pushed his tongue inside, further than it had gone yet.

“Fucking hell, Q,” James whispered, certain that Q couldn’t hear him over the sound of the water and rattling pipes. He breathed deeply, thinking that he was going to need to tie Q to the bed and ride him one of these days. Very, very soon. He’d make it a surprise in fact. “God, you’re fucking incredible.”

Q hummed but still didn’t say anything. He continued to tease James open, pulling back to lick gently just as the sensation threatened to overwhelm James. Once James had calmed down again, he returned to the harder touches, using both his thumb and forefinger to spread James open so he could lick even more. Finally Q’s own moans started to take on a more desperate edge, and he pulled back entirely, breathing hard.

James turned carefully, aware that he was dizzy from how his nerves had caught fire. He looked down at Q and said incoherently, “I’m healthy.”

Q stared up at him, lust making his gaze just a bit dazed, and he blinked a few times before he seemed to understand. Then he leaned close again and licked from James’ balls to the tip of his cock.

“Fuck, yes,” James whispered, thinking that if he didn’t at least take the edge off his desire, he’d never make it to the great hall. He braced one hand on the wall, fisted the other in Q’s hair, and looked down, giving him the chance to refuse.

Q met his eyes, laced his hands behind his back, and opened his mouth. Staring down at Q, James realised that this wasn’t about sex or dominance or even the incredible trust between them. He hadn’t felt this way about any of his partners since Tracy had died and since he and Alec had drifted apart.

But while his feelings weren’t about sex, this moment was. So he pushed aside the words for later and instead thrust hard and deep into Q’s mouth, taking the gift he offered so beautifully. To do anything less would be unfair to both of them.

 

~~~

 

Q followed James to the great hall, still feeling pleasantly buzzed and hazy from the shower. His jaw was a little sore from the incredible oral sex, his knees were sore from kneeling, and his body was tense from his own lack of release. Overall, Q felt _incredible_ , and he couldn’t wait to see what James had planned.

With its immense windows and two-storey ceiling, the great hall wouldn’t be properly warm again until summer, Q guessed, though the extravagant fireplace was trying valiantly to drive away the chill. Whole logs were burning in there, throwing a brilliant gold light into the otherwise dark room. An unfamiliar rug that looked like the fur of a black bear was on the floor by the hearth, along with every one of the colourful, tasselled pillows that James had scattered through the house for Q.

But instead of going towards the warm, cosy nest by the fire, James led him to the side, just under the upstairs sitting room. Two lengths of fine metal chain hung from the balcony railing, ending in leather cuffs high enough that Q would have to stand on his toes to comfortably reach. The cuffs were heavier than the ones they’d used for experimenting, with more padding, meant to cushion his wrists without causing damage or exacerbating his carpal tunnel.

A small, almost delicate table was nearby, holding a glass bowl of little silver clamps. Coiled beside the bowl was a long, supple whip.

Q stopped moving so he could more properly take in the scene. Every instinct screamed for him to fall at James’ feet, to press his head to James’ thighs and thank him before they even got started. He _wanted_ , god how he wanted, and it was the only thing that kept him moving forward.

“James,” he whispered, clutching James’ hand.

James turned and looked Q over. After the shower, James had put on a fresh pair of blue jeans. He’d told Q to stay naked, though he’d allowed Q to put on his glasses. Then he’d sent Q into the hallway, and Q had heard him open and close one of the drawers — the one with the toys, Q guessed.

Now, James put his free hand in his pocket and took out a small, coiled bit of leather. It was a dark, rich brown rather than black, and the fittings were brass instead of silver. “I made this for you,” he said, letting go of Q’s hand so he could carefully uncoil it. It was a single strap with four rings riveted to it.

It took Q a moment to tear his gaze away from James’ face long enough to properly examine the leather. It was a testament to his distraction that it took him several seconds to recognize it.

“A collar,” he breathed out, reaching out to brush the fingers of his free hand along the soft leather. He looked up at James again, suddenly overwhelmed with too many emotions to put name to. Giving in to his desire, he knelt in front of James, letting his head fall forward. “Please,” he begged quietly, wanting it _now_.

He heard James’ breath catch. Then James reached down, and his hands shook a bit as he wrapped the leather around Q’s neck. He fitted it carefully, hooking a finger under as he buckled it. Then he gave a pull, and the edge of the soft, thick leather pressed up under Q’s jaw.

Q closed his eyes and breathed out slowly, focusing on the perfect pressure and sensation. The leather was soft against his skin, and it fit perfectly. He wasn’t as familiar with James’ leatherwork as he was with his ironwork, but still, he knew this had taken time. Days, probably.

He wanted to open his eyes, to say thank you, to do something to show how much this meant to him. But he didn’t trust himself to move or speak. He kept his head bowed, thinking about nothing except for how cherished he felt.

James stood there, holding him by the collar, and ran a hand over his hair. “So perfect like this, Q,” he said softly. “Thank you. Thank you for being mine.”

“James,” Q finally managed, the name rough and broken on his tongue. He looked up, hoping that everything he couldn’t say was showing on his face.

Releasing the collar, James moved his hands to Q’s face. He brushed his fingers over Q’s lips and cheeks before his hands dropped to the collar once more. “Mine,” he repeated, looking from the collar to Q’s eyes. “I love you.”

Seven days. Seven days of companionship, of learning about James’ life, of settling at his feet and sharing his bed. Seven days of being almost his, of feeling the weight of his affection and desire. It was far less time than he’d had with other people, who he’d devoted months to in an effort to fall for, and yet, here he was. Seven days and he already loved and needed this man more than he’d ever thought it possible to love or need anyone.

“Yours,” he found the voice to say. “I love you, too.”

James leaned down, tugging Q to kneel upright, and kissed him, rough and hard and demanding, pulling the collar tight. Q surrendered, lacing his fingers behind his back to keep himself from grabbing at James, off-balance.

When James stepped back from the kiss, still holding Q’s collar, his eyes were wide and dark. “I’m going to bind you now,” he said roughly.

Q nodded. “Yes,” he whispered, eyes never leaving James’ face. “Please.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Friday, 23 November 2012**

James stared at the marks raised against Q’s skin, lines that crossed from his shoulderblades to his thighs. He’d been careful, meticulous in their placement, pausing between each strike to let Q recover. At first, Q had struggled to make himself give in. James hadn’t started out light, with a soft flogger or his hand. For all that Q looked fragile, James knew his Q was much stronger than he appeared to be. And he’d handled the pain beautifully, fighting through until the first rush of endorphins kicked in.

With anyone else, James would have stopped there. When he saw Q go relaxed and pliant in the cuffs, he stepped up to touch the welted lines, but didn’t put the whip down. He wrapped his arms around Q, dragging the coiled whip up over the clamps that ran up over his legs, his hips, and his chest, all the way to the soft, sensitive underside of his arms. With his other hand, he teased Q’s cock erect, whispering filthy promises in his ear until Q’s “yes, sir” and “please” and “anything” turned into broken moans.

Then he’d gone back to the whip, pushing Q harder and further than he had with anyone since Tracy. And Q took it — everything James did, he accepted without protest, even when he flinched involuntarily away from the whip or cried out, voice echoing in the great hall. He always found his balance, up on his toes, and always dragged in a breath and bowed his head, his whole body silently asking James for more.

Now, James watched as a single pinprick of blood broke free from the last welt where it crossed another. He gathered the whip as he walked to Q, and he ducked down to kiss the tiny wound. Then he put his arms around Q and kissed his shoulder, his neck, his ear.

“I’m going to uncuff you,” he said softly. “Then I’m going to carry you to the hearth, and I’m going to leave the clamps on while I fuck you. And you’ll come for me like that, no matter how much it hurts, won’t you?”

Despite having absolutely no leverage, Q tried his best to lean back into James. “Yes, sir,” he whispered, letting his head fall back, rubbing the collar against James’ shoulder. “Anything you want. Everything you want.”

 _Mine_ , James thought, holding Q tightly for a few seconds. Then, reluctantly, he let go so he could put the whip on the table by the now-empty bowl. When his hands were free, he circled around in front of Q, brushing one finger over the clamps. Q groaned and shuddered under the touch, breath hitching at the pain.

James silenced the groan with a soft touch on Q’s cock. He kissed gently, barely a brush of lips, and then reached up to unbuckle one wrist. “Put your arm around me for balance,” he said when Q staggered.

Q wrapped his arm around James, hissing as the clamps pressed into his upper arms. He didn’t flinch away, however; if anything, his grip tightened.

“Good,” James said softly, using one hand to release the other buckle, though it took some fumbling. As soon as Q’s wrist was free, James caught him in his arms and held him tightly. “Easy. Take all the time you need, love. I’ve got you.”

Q returned the embrace, body relaxed and compliant, draped over James. “Thank you, sir,” he said in a lazy, low voice. “That was exquisite.” He turned his head to nuzzle into James’ neck, though he didn’t lick or bite. “Thank you.”

Satisfaction warmed James; he felt complete in a way he hadn’t in far too long. He ran a hand down Q’s back, careful to keep his touch gentle. “Are you ready to lie down?”

“By the fireplace,” Q replied, throwing a glance in that direction, as if he were afraid that James would change his mind. “I’ve never seen a fire lit in that hearth before.”

“It’s only for special occasions.” James shifted Q in his arms, turning him to face the nest of pillows. “Can you walk, or shall I carry you? It’s all right if you need my help.”

“I’ll walk,” Q insisted. “I can feel it all that way,” he added with a faint smile. He took a few unsteady steps, groaning again as he made his way to the nest of pillows, leaning heavily on James.

Carefully, James eased Q down onto the pillows. He’d layered throw rugs under the fur, bundling the rugs at the edges to keep the pillows from sliding away. James followed him down to lie beside him, leaving Q closer to the fire’s warmth. “You’re gorgeous like this,” he said, running a finger between the lines of clamps. Q’s heart was racing, skin slick with sweat despite the faint chill in the room. “You can move, if you want, though you don’t have to.”

Q reached up to take James’ hand. He guided it into a gentle wave over the clamps, ever-so-slightly rolling his body to keep in contact. “James,” he exhaled, though his eyelids had slammed shut. “I can feel it everywhere. Back to chest. It’s incredible.”

He’d intended on letting Q have a rest, but now, he wanted to keep the fire burning inside him. He moved up over the clamps to touch the collar, wondering if he could convince Q to sleep in it tonight — to wear it all the time, when no one else was at the house. He’d even make another one that Q could wear in the shower.

“I want to do more,” he told Q, running a finger along the top edge of the collar. “Do you want more?”

“Please,” Q begged, opening his eyes again. “Everything you want.”

James touched Q’s mouth, remembering how incredible he’d felt in the shower. Then he turned away to feel for the lubricant he’d put under the pillows earlier. “Bend your legs for me,” he prompted, pouring some of the lubricant onto his fingers.

Q complied immediately, though slowly. His breath hitched, and James knew that it was from where his welts were making contact with the pillows. Then he stretched out with his arms, and twisted them so that he could rub his clamped skin against pillow surfaces, seeking more contact. More pain.

Fascinated, James moved his dry hand over the clamps on Q’s inner thigh, from his knee to just beside his balls and back up. Q hissed and pushed his hips upward, chasing James’ touch. James took hold of the last clamp, closest to his knee, and pulled it off, listening as Q let out a choked sob that couldn’t be mistaken for anything but raw need.

He touched one finger to Q’s entrance and pushed inside, slow but steady and firm. As he did, he pinched the clamp open and ran the body-warm metal over Q’s balls, high up where the skin was loose. As his finger slipped all the way inside, he pressed the clamp against the skin and closed the jaws slowly, just enough for Q to feel the threat of it.

“Oh, fuck,” Q cried out in a strangled voice, hips bucking upwards hard. “Don’t stop, please!”

Letting out a sharp exhale, James allowed the clamp to snap closed on Q’s skin. As Q cried out wordlessly at what had to have hurt like hell, he moved his finger out, then pressed back in hard as he snapped another clamp off, this one on Q’s other leg.

“Fuck, James,” Q said again, and this time his voice was strained beyond simple pleasure. Tremors ran through his body.

Wondering how far he could push, he kept moving his finger inside Q as he fixed the second clamp to Q’s balls, near the first. Q cried out again, the violent twitch of his hips shoving away rather than into. “Don’t...” he started, then swallowed. “Don’t stop. Please, sir.”

“Good, Q,” James encouraged, thrilled that Q would push himself like this. He lowered his head and rewarded the effort with a lick over Q’s cock, tasting him for the first time, as he slid his finger almost all the way out of Q’s body.

Q locked down on his reaction, keeping himself from pushing up rudely into James’ mouth. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered, body trembling with the force of keeping still.

Even after the relief he’d had in the shower, James’ arousal was almost painful; he couldn’t imagine how desperately close Q was. So he pushed a second finger in, feeling the heat and tension of Q’s body, and he licked over Q’s glans before closing his mouth around it. He slid down just an inch before pulling back and then repeated the movements with quick, sharp little strokes.

Q’s breathing degenerated into soft, quiet whines that started to increase in pitch as he continued to hold still for James. “Wait,” he whispered after a few minutes. “Please, sir, wait.”

Gently, James lifted his head from Q’s cock and let his fingers go still. “Talk to me, Q,” he said, turning to press a kiss to the red spot on Q’s leg where one of the clamps had been.

“I want to wait until you’re inside me,” Q pleaded, lifting his head to meet James’ eyes. “Please. You won’t even have to touch me.”

James might have said something in response, or maybe he just growled. He pulled his fingers free, cleaned them on the towel under the pillow, and poured more lube onto his palm. It dripped everywhere, but nothing was more important than being inside Q right that very instant. The touch of his own hand made him hiss; in a misguided attempt to distract himself, he reached out with his other hand and pulled another clamp free from Q’s inner thigh.

“Fuck!” Q cried out, shuddering hard as the clamp was pulled free from his over-sensitised skin. “Oh, god, please. That’s going to feel _so good_ when you fuck me.”

James had to pull his hand away and take deep breaths to calm himself. “Over,” he said, his voice harsh. “Turn over, up on your knees.” He moved so Q wouldn’t kick him and gave Q a slap on the hip to get him moving.

Q let out a hiss at the slap, and rolled over. “You missed, sir,” he breathed out as he lifted himself to settle on his hands and knees. Then he reached back to grab James’ hand, guiding it to one of the welts over his arse.

Biting back a laugh at Q’s spirit, James pulled his hand away, put it on the tattoo between Q’s shoulderblades, and shoved Q down onto the clamps covering his chest.

Q cried out at the pain, breath coming out in hitched sobs for a moment. Then he settled, the long, lean lines of his body falling into relaxed compliance. “Yes,” he whispered, eyes tightly closed.

After another breath, James nudged Q’s legs farther apart, steadied his cock, and pushed into Q’s body for the first time. Q was tight and hot and trembling, making the most beautiful sounds, and James didn’t stop until his hips were pressed hard against Q’s arse. Then he took hold of Q’s hips and tried to force himself not to come if he even thought about moving.

Q whimpered but didn’t move his hips. He did, however, stretch his arms out, dragging the clips along the pillows. “James,” he whispered.

With a shaky exhale, James leaned over, groaning at the shift of his cock inside Q’s body. He took hold of the collar, disdaining the ring to hook three fingers around the leather, and he gave a sharp tug so Q would feel it.

Then, as Q groaned appreciatively, voice low and shattered with arousal, James started to move. Even so soon after he’d indulged in Q’s mouth, he knew he wouldn’t last — not after everything Q had given him. Q was an uninhibited masochist, not just taking whatever James could give him but wanting more.

That thought made James grin. Q wanted more, and James wanted to see just how far he would go.

So he leaned down, bracing a hand next to Q’s body to keep from crushing him into the pillows, and whispered, “Every one of those clamps comes off before you come, Q. You can use your hands, until I get bored of leaving them free. And these” — he slid his free hand under Q’s body, deliberately dragging his palm down the length of Q’s cock to tug at the two clamps fixed to his balls — “go last.”

The challenge seemed to energise Q. He shifted back onto all fours and looked over his shoulder at James, his eyes dark and full of fire and promise. Then, with a ragged inhale, he pushed himself up onto James’ lap so they were pressed close, back-to-chest.

Before James could say anything, Q lifted his arms, laced his fingers together behind James’ neck, and turned to bite one of the clamps on the underside of his arm. He jerked his head, pulling it free with his teeth.

It was the hottest thing James had ever seen.

He slid a hand over Q’s cock to reward him and said, “Again.” He closed his fingers enough to apply a hint of pressure and moved slowly down, a rough drag of callused fingertips that he knew wouldn’t be quite enough.

Q’s eyes fluttered shut, though whether it was due to the touch or the blatant, uncompromising demand in James’ voice, he didn’t know. Q ducked his head to reach the next clamp and pulled it free in a sharp, quick movement. The metal fell to the floor nearly silently, disappearing in the pillows, and Q let his head fall back. When he opened his eyes to look at James, it wasn’t satisfaction or arousal that dominated his expression — it was a hopeful look. Q wasn’t reacting to just the pain itself now; he wanted to please James.

“Perfect,” James said softly, barely daring to breathe for fear of breaking this moment. He nearly demanded more, but he made himself pause to consider which clamps Q would be able to reach; he didn’t want to set Q up for failure by giving him an impossible task. But there were at least two more he’d be able to reach on his other arm. “Again.”

Q exhaled at the praise and rubbed his jaw against James’. Then he turned to look searchingly at the arm he’d already removed two of the clamps from. Apparently he arrived at the same conclusion as James because he turned to the other arm next. He bit the top clip first, this time taking it closer to the hinge so it didn’t swing open. He pulled, stretching the skin where it was still attached to the clamp, until finally it popped free, leaving an angry red mark behind. Q whimpered and dropped the clamp. This time when he leaned his head back, searching for James’ approval, James saw that the sting had drawn a tear into the corner of Q’s eye.

Breathless, James put his arms around Q and held him tightly, pressing a kiss to his shoulder before he bit hard enough to make Q cry out. When he let go, he whispered, “You’re incredible, Q. One more clamp. Just one more.”

“Thank you, sir,” Q whispered. He dropped his head and stared at the last clamp, obviously considering his options. After a moment, he slowly leaned down and took the clamp in his teeth. He gripped it even lower this time, keeping the jaws tight around his own skin. When he pulled, he let out another soft whimper as the skin stretched, further and further, while the clamp, under Q’s teeth, refused to pull free. Finally, it snapped away, leaving an angry welt that was nearly bleeding. Q dropped the clamp with a shaky exhale, and instead of turning to face James, he let his head fall, body still shuddering.

“God, you’re amazing,” James said, pressing kisses to Q’s shoulder and neck as he ran his hands over Q’s body, careful to avoid the clamps on his chest and abdomen. “So perfect. So good. Thank you.”

“Sir,” Q choked out, hands tight around James’ neck but the rest of his body completely loose and pliant. “I can’t reach the other ones.”

“Don’t move your hands,” James said, shifting his hips just enough for Q to feel his cock. He reached down and splayed one hand over Q’s abdomen, holding him in place. His other hand moved farther down, fingers searching for one of the clamps on his inner thigh. “You’ve been so perfect for me, Q,” he said, tensing his abdomen and pushing up as he pinched the clamp and tugged it free.

Q moaned, pushing away from the clamp and further onto James. “Thank you, sir,” he whispered. “It’s just for you, now. All for you.”

James’ chest went tight. He took a shuddering breath and answered Q with a line of kisses down his neck and shoulder as he started methodically removing the clamps. When his head pressed against Q’s bent arm, he stopped only long enough to remind Q, “Keep your hands still. Be good for me.”

Q nodded, fingers tightening reflexively on James’ neck. “Yes, sir,” he whispered.

With a low growl, James rolled his hips, barely shifting his cock inside Q’s body as he went back to stripping away the clamps. Every one made Q flinch and writhe and whimper, but he never let go. “You are so fucking _perfect_ ,” James said against Q’s skin as they both started to pant for breath. He pulled off the clamp off Q’s right nipple and then pressed his hand over the sore flesh as he kissed wherever he could reach. “So perfect.”

“James,” Q exhaled, body contracting tightly. “I can’t... I need... _please_!” he cried out, bucking forward. His hands tightened almost painfully before Q froze, obviously trying to wrestle himself back under control.

“Fuck,” James growled, his own self-control breaking under the force of Q’s need. After one more kiss pressed to Q’s neck, he said, “Let go.” As soon as Q’s hands came loose, he pushed Q down and followed, getting a hand on his hips to keep their bodies joined.

He forgot about the rest of the clamps as he fucked into Q hard.

“James, _please_!” Q begged again, head turned so that James could see Q’s destroyed expression. “The last two! I’m trying, but I can’t hold back much longer. Please, sir... please!”

Clumsily, James reached further around Q’s body, nearly forgetting himself as his arm brushed Q’s cock. Q’s whole body twitched at the touch, and he let out a high, desperate cry. James caught at the first clamp, pulling hair and skin as he snapped it off, and Q’s body went tense around his cock.

It was too much. Everything went white, and he stopped breathing. The clamp fell from his fingers as he pushed deep into Q and went still under pleasure like he hadn’t felt for years.

Then, with a sharp inhale, he pulled off the other clamp and demanded, “Come. For me, Q. Now.” He let the clamp fall to take hold of Q’s cock.

Q nearly curled around James’ hand, body contracting with a long, broken groan. He thrust against James’ hand only a few times, sharp and quick, before the pleasure took him. He whispered, “Sir,” over and over again until he collapsed, completely spent, on the pillows.

James withdrew with a quiet moan. He felt for the towel and dragged it between their bodies before he curled up against Q’s back. “You’re amazing, Q. Thank you,” he said, holding Q gently. “You are so fucking incredible. God.”

Q didn’t say anything — probably _couldn’t_ say anything. He lay under James, panting to catch his breath. He reached behind himself to James’ knee and gripped.

“I love you,” James said softly, finally catching his breath. He kicked his free leg at the pillows and found the throw he’d taken from over the couch in his study. He let go of Q just long enough to pull it up over them both. “You’re so perfect, Q.”

Finally, Q found his voice. “Thank you, sir. James. I love you.” He wrapped his arms around James’ and shuddered one more time before going still. “Thank you.”

James kissed the back of Q’s head. “Rest a little. I’ll get you some aspirin in a few minutes. Do you need anything else? Something to drink?”

Q shook his head, arms tightening as if afraid to let James go. “Stay. Please. Can I sleep here?”

“Yes. Absolutely,” James said, ready to promise Q anything. “I’ll stay right here with you.” He stopped talking, realising he was on the verge of babbling, and kissed Q again. Then he looked at the fireplace, making certain it would stay warm for at least a few hours. After a moment, he put his head back down and snuggled even closer to Q, until even their feet were pressed together. “Mine.”

“Yours.”


	11. Chapter 11

**Wednesday, 28 November 2012**

Q woke suddenly, though it wasn’t immediately clear why. He groaned as he rolled out of bed, the ache in his body delicious and limiting all at the same time. He closed his eyes and pressed a hand to the bruise on his lower back — _James_.

A quick hand out to the other side showed the bed was empty. There was light on the far side of the room, by the door to the hallway. Q had to put on his glasses to see the bedside clock: just past two in the morning. Q stared at the clock for a moment, wondering what in the hell would cause James to get out of bed so early.

Q put his glasses back on the bedside table and curled back up under the covers, only to hear the distinct, creaking sound of the front door as it was slammed shut against the wind that rattled the windows. The sound made Q jump; James was _never_ careless enough to let the door slam. He rolled out of bed and pulled on one of James’ oversized T-shirts. He reached over for his glasses, then the gun that was always within a few feet of him, and pulled it free of its holster.

Silently, Q made his way out of the room and down the stairs. He slipped through the hallway towards the parlour, where he could hear James moving around. There was no urgency in the footsteps, and Q kept his gun lowered as looked inside.

“James?”

James was there: Alec was with him, looking a bit feral and very much worse for wear. He looked at Q, let out a relieved sigh, and said, “Quartermaster. It’s over.”

 _Over_. Q stood, staring at Alec, trying to comprehend the meaning of those words. Silva was caught, obviously. But what else? Was Silva dead? Was the mole found?

A tiny, razor-sharp voice whispered that it all was over, Skyfall and James included. Q looked over at James, trying to gauge his reaction. James didn’t want him gone now, did he?

After a few tense, silent seconds, James held out a hand to Q, though when he spoke, it was to Alec: “What happened?”

“I had a talk with Silva,” Alec said with a shrug. “We were shooting at each other at the time, so it wasn’t very rational, but it was enlightening.”

Relieved, Q made his way over to James and took his hand. Remembering their discussion about Alec, he knelt down, set the gun on the coffee table, and rested his head against James’ knee. The carpet was rough under his bare legs. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Alec staring at him, though he made no comment, and slowly, Q relaxed.

“And?” James asked, still holding Q’s hand. His fingers tightened, not reassuringly but possessively, as if refusing to let Q go.

“And he killed M, and then I killed him.” Alec shrugged again. “How’s your holiday been?”

“Is Q safe?”

Alec looked back at Q and nodded. “As safe as can be, without confirmation that we got them all. We need you for that.”

“I’m not —” James started, and then looked at Q. He hesitated, seemingly uncertain. “What do you want to do?”

Q had lost the thread of the conversation at Alec’s rather casual declaration that M was dead. He lifted his head and stared at Alec. “What happened to M?”

“Silva killed her,” Alec repeated more gently. “He had a half dozen of his people in MI6. It’ll take months to sort out the security breach completely. That’s Mallory’s first priority.”

“Mallory,” Q repeated. He dropped his head back to James’ knee. “I know him. He can be trusted.” He closed his eyes. “When is M’s funeral?”

Alec shrugged. “A week, probably, once you get past all the red tape. If there’s a funeral at all.” His eyes narrowed. “You’re sure about Mallory? He _seemed_ useful — he was wounded trying to protect M — but...”

“I’m sure,” Q said with a sigh. He wasn’t willing to explain to Alec just what he knew about Mallory and how he knew it — the committee he was on was only the tip of an iceberg full of military operations. His head was too full of M, the cold, tiny, steadfast woman who had stood like a beacon throughout the last part of Q’s adult life.

When nothing more was forthcoming, Alec leaned back in his armchair. “Well?” he asked James.

James squeezed Q’s hand and let go, but only so he could run his fingers through Q’s hair. “He’s mine. He can go back to work, if he wants, or I can make him disappear. But no matter what he chooses, he’s mine.”

A wave of relief had Q exhaling and leaning more heavily against James. The faint worry that this was all just temporary, that as soon as Alec showed up Q would be whisked away to MI6 again without even the opportunity to object, vanished. He was James’. Whether Alec wanted anything to do with him or not.

“Do I need to vanish?” he asked quietly, once he realised Alec hadn’t properly addressed the subject of the mole.

“No.” Alec shook his head, addressing both of them. “You’re safe — or, well, we’d like to _confirm_ you’re safe. We can’t be certain until you’ve had a chance to verify. You’re still head of Q Branch.”

“Verify _what_ , exactly?” Q demanded. James’ fingers went tight, and he gave a quick tug on Q’s hair.

Alec noticed, though he didn’t smirk or laugh. “Mallory was apparently Home Office. He has some sort of data-aggregation program that he wants installed and run to redo background checks on everyone. And we have a half dozen field agents at Silva’s headquarters — which were filled with computers, by the way. If you’re resigning or disappearing, I suppose they’ll have to find someone else...” He trailed off, looking at James.

“You don’t have to decide now,” James told Q.

 _I don’t know what to do_ , he thought, closing his eyes again, focusing on the data. He trusted Mallory to do a good job of taking over, of analysing the data, but there was still more to be said. Q felt a surge of vindictive need. He wanted to go through the computers and tear apart everything that Silva had built, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but rubble. But he also didn’t want to leave James.

“I need some time,” he said, thinking that a conversation with Mallory was in order. Quartermaster was an incredible position. Q wanted to be useful, but he also didn’t want to burn out within a few years. Even if James worked around Q’s job, there wasn’t much time for a personal life. It was too much stress, too much work, too many lives that needed saving over and over and over again. Q wanted to be useful, but he also wanted to be loved. “But I’m not leaving you.”

“Do you want me to come to London with you?” James asked. He lowered his hand to Q’s nape, rubbing his fingers gently over his skin. “Or I can talk to this Mallory for you. Or Alec can,” he added, looking at Alec.

A little surprised, Alec nodded. “If you’d like.”

Q shook his head. “Mallory knows me. I’ve saved his life, and he’s saved mine. I want to know what he needs from me to keep operations running at full capacity during the transition. After that...” He shook his head. “I never wanted to be Quartermaster. I just did what needed to be done.”

“No pressure or anything,” Alec said tentatively, “but we’re completely buggered, Q. We need good people, or —” He shook his head. “You know what it was like before you took over.”

James’ fingers tightened against Q’s nape. “Alec,” he warned.

Alec sighed. “We need him, James. We need someone we can trust not to fuck us over — not to let the rest of his people fuck us over. Someone who’s not caught up in paperwork and being a bloody show pony for committees and exchanging fake service awards. Someone military.”

Q understood, and nodded. “Low morale and distrust can kill just as effectively as a gun. With broader implications for the long-term health of the organisation, too.” He sighed and stood. “All right. I’ll go back. For now.”

“You don’t have to,” James repeated, half-lifting the hand that had been on Q’s nape. Then he let it fall to his lap, fingers twitching.

“It’s a bloody mess, James,” Alec said reasonably, though he looked at Q. Automatically, it seemed, he pointed down at the floor in a familiar gesture   — the same one James used to beckon Q to his knees. “We’re not going anywhere tonight. I haven’t slept in a week, it seems.”

Surprised and relieved, Q sank back down next to James. He gave Alec a grateful look before he closed his eyes again, resting his head on James’ knee. He wanted to ask Alec if he needed help getting ready for bed or falling asleep, but James had to be the one to offer, not Q. James was deeply possessive, and if he’d changed his mind in the week he had Q to himself, Q wasn’t going to make a mistake by assuming otherwise.

James stared down at Q. He started to pet Q’s hair again, this time more gently than before. Without looking away from Q, he said, “I told him about Tracy. About us.”

Alec’s indrawn breath was barely audible, but to Q, who’d heard Alec remain stoic under the most trying conditions, it was nearly a shout.

“You brought him to me because you knew I’d want him,” James continued.

A bit tensely, Alec said, “I brought him to you so he wouldn’t be killed. There’s no one else I trust.”

James lifted his head to look across the coffee table at Alec. “Don’t be an arse, Alec.”

Alec huffed, and a hint of amusement entered his voice as he added, “If you’re asking if I knew you’d like him, that’s fucking obvious.”

“Because you like him.”

Alec drew back, shooting a carefully neutral look at Q. “James —”

“I know you,” James interrupted with a short laugh. “You have no fucking idea how _perfect_ he is, but I’d lay money you guessed. You considered it before you ever put him in your car to bring him to me.”

“Fine. Christ, yes. Of course,” Alec admitted a bit guiltily. “I figured, even if —” He cut off and shook his head. Then, a bit defensively, he said, “It’s obvious you two are fucking perfect for one another, so don’t act offended.”

“There’s no need to be jealous,” James countered, unruffled. He looked back down at Q, searching his face. “He’d be safer if both of us were looking out for him. And I think we’d all be happy that way.”

Alec looked from James to Q and back. “Are you serious?”

“It worked with Tracy,” James said persuasively. “We’ve discussed it, quite a bit.” He touched Q’s chin to lift his face. “Only what you want, Q,” he said softly.

More than anything, Q wanted to make James happy. The look he got in his eyes when he talked about Alec — not just Tracy and Alec, but Alec himself — spoke of more than just simple affection. It was love and longing. But Q knew better than to risk something as incredible as his relationship with James by adding a third person just for James’ sake. He’d been thinking about it a lot, and it just wasn’t a fair burden for him to carry if he didn’t actually want Alec.

He needed to want Alec, all on his own. Needed to _need_ Alec, for the same reasons he needed James. And that meant he needed to get to know Alec as more than Agent Trevelyan, 006. He needed to know if he could love Alec the way he loved James.

Q lifted his head to look across the room. Alec was handsome and brilliant and kind, and he’d put everything at risk for Q. Until James, Q had never let himself think about Alec as anything but a field agent, because it just wouldn’t have worked. Senior Double O, brand new Quartermaster. It was a recipe for disaster.

But now everything was different.

Slowly, Q got to his feet, pulling gently away from James’ hand. Braced for any hint of rejection, he looked into Alec’s eyes. He could see just how lonely Alec was — just as hurt and isolated as James had been, before he and Q had come together. Without hesitation, Q circled the coffee table, thinking that he really did want this knight in not-quite-shining armour.

He pushed Alec’s knees apart and knelt between them, looking up with a pleading expression.

It seemed to take effort for Alec to look away from Q. “James?” he asked very quietly. And James must have nodded, because Alec let out a breath and touched Q’s face, running his callused fingertips over Q’s cheek. “Any other night, I’d take you apart,” he said apologetically, “but I’m dead on my feet.”

“Q, take him to our room,” James said. “I’ll bring up food and tea.”

“Oh, bloody hell, you let _James_ cook?” Alec asked Q, horrified.

Q shook his head, smiling softly. “Patricia. Who, if I were ten years older, would be pretty stiff competition for you two.”

Laughing, James said, “Take him upstairs, Q. And don’t let him get in bed until he’s had a bath. And check him for injuries. If I know —”

“Since when are you like this?” Alec demanded, though he, too, was laughing. Absently, he ran a finger down to Q’s mouth, tracing over his bottom lip. “A bath. And I’m fine.”

“He’s lying,” James told Q.

“Scratches,” Alec countered. “I wasn’t even shot, this time.”

“If you need the Taser, it’s in the gun room, Q. Go.”

“He wouldn’t do that to me. You wouldn’t, would you?” Alec asked, looking down at Q. “You like me.”

Q stretched up, leaning close to brush his mouth along Alec’s ear. “It doesn’t matter, because I don’t need the Taser, do I, Alec?”

“That’s cheating,” Alec warned. He leaned forward, not to stand but to put an arm around Q’s body, trapping him against the chair. “But fine. Let’s go upstairs while James burns the kitchen down.” He turned, nuzzling against Q’s hair, and hugged him closer before he let go so he could stand stiffly.

Q rose at the same time, ready to brace Alec if needed. Then he took Alec’s hand and led him upstairs toward the bedroom. “Did you know about me? Before?” he asked quietly when they were at the top of the steps.

Alec stopped without letting go of Q. When Q looked back, Alec pulled him off-balance and caught him with his free arm. He let go of Q’s hand to take hold of his hair, pulling back to bare his throat. “I suspected,” he admitted, leaning down to press his lips over Q’s pulse. “Little tells. You hid them, but not well enough. I just couldn’t act on them.”

Q didn’t silence the moan that could have given them away and brought down James’ wrath. He suspected that, this once, disobedience was the right choice.

“What tells?” he asked, allowing himself to be wrapped up in Alec’s arms. “Wouldn’t want anyone else to think they could have their way with me.”

“A hundred little things. The way you go still under a strong handshake or when someone gets too close. You make eye contact when you’re being challenged as part of your job, but ask a question that’s not about work, and you lower your eyes. The way you stop typing when someone walks up behind you, but you don’t tense as if readying against an attack. How you deal with some of us — me, 0014, Wilson in Security, Campbell in Admin. You only give me and 0014 orders in the line of work. Anything else — even that bloody paperwork you execs love so much — you phrase as requests, but only with us.”

“Fucking hell,” Q muttered, pulling away to lead Alec the rest of the way, through the bedroom and into the bathroom. “It’s almost frightening that you know that. That you looked that closely. I didn’t even realise I was doing it.”

“Of course not. I’m a secret agent, not an idiot. If I wanted to get caught stalking one of the MI6 execs, you’d know it,” Alec said with a laugh as he leaned back against the bathroom counter, watching Q. His suit was rumpled, torn in places, and reeked of smoke — from a fire, not cigarettes. The abrasions on his face spoke of far worse damage hidden under the layers of fine fabric.

“And how much I like pain?” he asked, deliberately removing the T-shirt. James was careful with his rope-work, and his leather cuffs were softly padded, rarely leaving marks on Q’s wrists or ankles. His back and chest, though, were welted and bruised from James’ brilliant whips. When Q turned away to put his shirt on the counter, he heard Alec draw a quick, sharp breath.

“Fuck,” he said quietly as Q turned back to face him. His laugh was low and dangerous, and if not for the dark circles under his green eyes, Q might have dropped to his knees in response. “I guessed as much when James said you’re _his_. I know James, possibly better than he knows himself.”

Apparently, his guess that Alec would share James’ preferences was correct. Alec let out a soft breath and touched one of the little red marks on Q’s chest. He traced the lines left by the stiff leather thongs, pausing only to let Q slide off his jacket, then his holster, and finally his shirt.

But Q wasn’t the only one who was marked. Alec _probably_ hadn’t been lying about not being shot — at least, Q guessed that the graze over his ribs could have come from something else, though it wasn’t quite sharp enough to be from a knife. The abrasions were definitely from concrete or asphalt, though they’d started to heal, probably days ago. At least he hadn’t been burned or shot. And god, he was just as beautifully built as James.

“What do you _not_ like?” Alec asked, moving his hand to rest over Q’s shoulder. “What won’t you do for us?”

“I don’t want to be hospitalised, or have to deal with urine or excrement,” Q said quietly, reaching for Alec’s belt. “James has tried, but he hasn’t found my limits yet.” He unbuckled the belt, undid Alec’s flies, and dropped to his knees, taking Alec’s trousers down with him.

Alec let out a soft, quiet breath. “I’m surprised he’d let you go back to London at all.” With a faint smile, Alec toed off his dress shoes, leaving marks on the leather at the heels. “After Tracy, we thought we’d never find someone to be with us. I suppose we stopped looking.”

Q helped Alec step out of his trousers, pants, and socks. Then he ran his hands up Alec’s thighs, exploring gently. “I’m sorry you’ve been alone this long,” he said quietly.

“Did James — He must have told you.” Alec sighed and leaned back against the counter. He picked up his jacket and rifled through the pockets until he found a bottle of pills. “What happened to her, I mean. What happened to him, with MI6.”

Q nodded and ran his hands slowly up and down Alec’s legs. He needed to get up and start the water, but he didn’t want to move from Alec’s feet.

Alec shook one of the pills out and put the bottle down. He dry-swallowed the pill and then ran his fingers through Q’s hair before he pulled gently. “You’re never cutting this,” he murmured, almost to himself. “You’ll sleep between us tonight. Won’t you? He doesn’t have you sleeping in the guest room, does he?”

Q shook his head. “I’m sleeping with you. Both of you.” He ducked in to lick Alec’s hipbone, over an old scar.

“Q...” Alec laughed roughly, giving another tug, this one much less gentle. “Tomorrow, assuming my stitches don’t come undone in the middle of the night, I will fuck you all damned day. Tonight, we’d be lucky if I could stay up long enough to watch you and James. Which is a very fucking appealing thought,” he added, grinning down at Q. “But I really do need that bath — with soap — or I’m going to end up sleeping on the bloody couch.”

“I wasn’t...” Q  started to object. He’d just wanted to touch and taste. Sex wasn’t on his mind at all. He licked again then got up to start the bath. “It isn’t about sex for me, Alec.”

“Mmm. But it’s been so fucking long since I could _have_ someone,” Alec said gently, “and in case you hadn’t noticed, your field agents occasionally do profoundly stupid things. Just looking at you makes me want nothing more in the world than to be deep inside you all fucking night. Except James can’t sew for shit, and I’ve no idea if you throw up at the sight of blood, so until I’m awake enough not to do something stupid that’ll rip out these stitches, I can’t trust _myself_ not to give in to temptation.”

“You can trust me not to let you be stupid,” Q pointed out, looking back at Alec as he drew the bath. Then he smirked. “Faint at the sight of blood? Really?”

Alec laughed and went to sit down on the edge of the tub as if too tired to stay on his feet. “Really. Tracy did. Tanner gets queasy if you walk past him with open wounds, too, you know. He’s still there — Mallory’s number two. If you ever need to see Mallory, just get a nosebleed or something. Tanner will go green and have to step out for fresh air.”

“I won’t need an excuse to get in to see Mallory,” Q said with a shrug. He lifted Alec’s feet and turned him to get into the tub. “But duly noted.” On Alec’s back, he saw two short wounds — stab wounds, he suspected — that had been stitched closed and then taped.

With a little hiss at the water’s heat, Alec lowered himself into the tub. He closed his eyes and said, “There’s enough room in here for you with me. And I want to see the rest of you.”

Smiling faintly at the way Alec asked instead of ordered, Q slipped into the tub. He turned so his back was open to Alec, and pulled his knees up to rest his chin on. “I can’t believe how much has changed in a couple of weeks,” he said softly, shaking his head.

As Q had predicted, Alec couldn’t resist touching the lines and welts on his back. “He barely touched your tattoo. He’s a fucking artist with a whip,” Alec muttered softly. “Always has been.”

“He is, isn’t he?” Q agreed, sighing happily at the touch. “Thank you for bringing me here.” He paused and turned back to look at Alec. “I love him.”

Alec’s eyes widened slightly at the confession. Then he smiled wryly and leaned carefully against the back of the tub, pulling Q down against his chest. “So do I.”

 

~~~

 

James felt much better once he got Alec fed with tea and sandwiches made from last night’s dinner roast. The fact that Alec devoured both sandwiches and then all but passed out, wrapped around Q like an octopus, spoke of the toll this hunt had taken on him. After building up the fire, James sat down on the other side of the bed and took Q’s hands in his, looking at him across their shared pillow.

“Can you be happy like this? With us?” he asked quietly. He was dominant, yes, but he needed Q to be happy.

“I _am_ happy like this,” Q replied, smiling softly at James. “We love you, you know.”

 _We_. James’ hands went tight on Q’s, and he closed his eyes for a moment. “He’ll love you. If he doesn’t already, he will,” he said softly. “I promise, we’ll take care of you. If there’s ever anything you want...” He moved one hand to touch Q’s face, feeling the soft eyelashes as his eyes fluttered closed. “Anything at all.”

“I wish I didn’t have to go back,” Q confessed quietly, nuzzling into James’ hand. “I want to stay here, between the two of you, for days. Not that I want to leave MI6 in a mess. I could never leave my agents to hang like that. But...” He sighed. “I don’t want to leave.”

“I’ll come with you,” James said without hesitation. “Kincaid can watch the animals, and I trust him to hire help if he needs. We can stay with Alec, or I can buy us a townhouse there, for when you want to visit the city.” He laughed softly and added, “That might be safer. I can imagine the state of Alec’s kitchen.”

Q closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “You’d do that, for me,” he said, almost too softly to be heard.

“I love you,” James said simply. “Anything you want, Q — anything at all. I’ll leave the UK for you, if that’s what you want.”

“What will you do?” Q asked. “I don’t want to render you bored and restless by stuffing you in a city townhouse without so much as a garden, let alone space for a horse.”

James laughed. “I _am_ capable of entertaining myself, Q. I’ll find some way to keep busy while you and Alec are at work. And I can at least bring my two favourite dogs.” He inched over so he could kiss Q’s forehead. Behind Q, Alec muttered something sleepily and held Q more tightly. “Do you mind if I come with you?”

“I don’t know if I could bring myself to leave without you,” Q confessed, staring at James with naked want. Not lust. This wasn’t about sex. It was something more.

“And I don’t think I could stay here without you,” James admitted, a little frightened by how intensely he wanted to keep Q in reach. His possessive nature was urging him to bar the doors to keep Q from ever leaving. He moved his hand to touch Q’s throat and asked, “Would you wear your collar? So Alec can see it, when he wakes up?”

Q’s eyes widened slightly, and he licked his lips. “Oh, yes, please.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head back, baring his throat to James. “Do you think I could wear it under my shirt and my suit jacket at work?”

James’ breath caught. He thought about the thinnest leather he could work, and he cursed that he wasn’t good enough with metalworking to make something lighter. “I’ll find someone to make you something,” he promised. “Something strong. Maybe something we can lock on you, so you don’t have to ever take it off.”

“Oh, god,” Q whispered, exhaling sharply. He let his eyes close for a moment before he opened them to stare at James. “I’ve never belonged anywhere. With anyone. _To_ anyone. This” — he waved a hand at Alec’s arms around him and in James’ general direction. “Thank you.”

James leaned in to kiss him again, more slowly, trying to express everything he felt — everything he couldn’t articulate. Then, because Alec wouldn’t let go of Q, James pushed the blankets over so he could get one arm under the pillow. He rolled onto his back and got his arm under both their heads, so Q could rest against his chest, and his hand brushed Alec’s body.

“You belong here,” James said, as Q put an arm around his waist, trapping Alec’s hand between their bodies. “You belong here, with us, and you always will.”

Q sighed happily and rubbed his cheek over James’ chest. “Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you all for reading! We currently have no plans to continue this story.
> 
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